


Bang Your Head (Metal Health)

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Bang Your Head (Metal Health) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, Assassination, Assassination Attempt(s), Assassination Plot(s), Assault, Betrayal, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Blood, Cullen Rutherford Smut, Cullen Smut, Cullenlingus, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gun Violence, Investigations, Kinky Cullen Rutherford, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Modern Era, Modern Thedas, Music, Musical References, Musicians, POV Cullen Rutherford, Politics, Private Investigators, Romance, Smut, Sweet Cullen Rutherford, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 93
Words: 140,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amallia Trevelyan and Cullen Rutherford live in the city of Redcliffe, Ferelden’s principal city for the arts. A musician and composer, Amallia is moving into her new apartment when Cullen, the Chief Operating Officer of the security firm REDIS, stumbles upon her at the door to his apartment building.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Happenstance

**Author's Note:**

> This is a modern AU I started back in September of 2015. It features several Dragon Age characters, as well as three original characters. My own Amallia Trevelyan, my sister's Karris Lavellan (who is Amallia's sister, even though Karris is technically an elf), and my Ashara Lavellan.
> 
> On that note, I don't really describe species at all in this AU. They're kind of taken as a fact, but I never describe Karris or Ashara as elves, they're just "women" as is Amallia. The Iron Bull (a.k.a. Hissrad) is typically described as a "bull of a man" but he's only featured in one scene thus far. When more Dorian/Bull scenes occur later on in this fic, he'll still only be described as an incredibly large man. I don't want to break the immersion, so to avoid any kind of weirdness or confusion, you can imagine these characters exactly how they would look in Inquisition, but in modern clothes.
> 
> Lastly, this fanfic has developed into an investigative thriller over time. The plot shifts focus midway through from Cullen and Amallia to the investigation of an attempted murder. Fair warning, Cullen x Alistair has emerged here as well, turning into a poly relationship between Cullen, Amallia, Amodisia, and Alistair.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A beginning.

A walk had done the trick. Anxiety was a bitch to live with, but Cullen was confident he was making progress every month. A few techniques suggested by his therapist helped take the edge off and he found he could handle the rest. But earlier that day, his job had pushed him to the limit and by the time he had left, he was surprised he had any teeth left to grind.

Now that he had taken some time to cool off, calm down, he no longer felt as though he was about to throw up. And he no longer felt like quitting his job, either. No small feat, considering the last few contracts his security firm had taken on were for a few high profile people with rabid fans or equally rabid enemies.

He loved his work but he knew the stress was not healthy. As he walked through the park, he thought about alternatives. Maybe he could step down, take a less important position. He did miss working in the field quite a bit. He was a man of action and sitting behind a desk, while safer, was easily more mentally taxing and stressful. In the field, he could rely on his training and instincts. In the office, he had to make small talk and organize reports, neither of which he was very good at.

With a resigned sigh, he left the park and made his way to a local diner, digging in his pocket for his phone. He put in a double order ahead knowing it would be ready by the time he walked there. He planned on eating the second portion for dinner the next day since he would not have time to cook or go to the grocery store with his current schedule.

The tall buildings of the city obscured the sun as it descended towards the horizon. The streets were clogged with traffic, buses and taxis jockeying for position, and civilians risking their own vehicles. Cullen realized he had not driven his car in months, but he was afraid to even take it out. He was considering moving it to a local storage garage where it would be arguably safer.

_I might even take the time to work on it then. Or hell, I might even drive it._

He arrived at the diner while pondering what he should do about the car, putting the thoughts aside to finalize later. Food in hand, the five minute walk to his flat whipped by and he realized he was feeling better than he had in a few days.

He rounded the corner of his block and stopped short when he saw a woman attempting to unlock the front door to his building while balancing what appeared to be a heavy box. He had never seen her before – he would have never missed those long, purple, waves of hair – and thought she may be attempting to enter the wrong building.

Reluctantly, he approached her. “Can I help you?”


	2. What the Fuck Am I Doing?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner? Really?

She looked to him, eyes wide in surprise. She had not seen or heard him happen upon her. The wind whipped the dark purple waves of her hair about her face, and icy blue eyes stared at him, her mouth agape.

“Oh! Uh, sorry,” she said with a shake of her head. “Yes, I could use a hand, I’m trying to get into my flat.”

_Oh, no. No, no, no …_  

“Your … flat?” Cullen asked as he easily lifted the box from her arms.

“Thanks!” she chirped with a smile. She curled her hair behind an ear out of her face as she studied her keys. “I just moved in the other day, this is my last box.”

“I see,” he said as he balanced his food atop the box. She was finally able to unlock the door and swung it wide. She took a step in and then reached for her box.

“I can take that back, now, thank you, sir,” she said sweetly with outstretched arms.

Cullen motioned in with his head. “Would you believe me if I told you I live here, too?”

Her eyes brightened. “Oh, perfect timing, then!” she said with a short laugh as she made for the stairs.

_Oh sweet Maker help me …_

“Do you think they’ll ever fix the lift?” she scoffed.

Cullen laughed. “Nope. I know the landlord and he … just, no, he won’t fix it.”

“Good thing we’re …" she began as she looked over her shoulder. Cullen knew he was blushing profusely as the woman eyed him up and down, once over. “… healthy, then,” she quipped under her breath as she started up the stairs.

He couldn’t help it. It was right in front of his face as he climbed the stairs behind her. He stared at her ass up to the first landing. “Yeah … healthy,” he sighed. She was wearing a loose racerback tank top and yoga pants. He thanked and then immediately cursed the person that had invented yoga pants.

When they crested the second floor, she turned down the hallway.

_Oh you’ve got to be shitting me!_

“Is that box too heavy? You really didn’t need to carry it for me,” she said over his shoulder.

“No problem, I got it. Not that heavy,” he said with a smile.

She smiled in response as she continued down the hallway, turning left at the next split.

_Oh for fuck’s sake …_

At the very end of the hall she turned to the door on the left and unlocked it. She had to put her shoulder into the door to get it to open, but she didn’t have trouble with it.

“Well, this is me, thanks again!” she chimed as she took the box from him.

Cullen took his food off the top of the box. “Cullen,” he said. He didn’t know why.

She turned to him in the threshold of her door, the box set on the floor just inside. “What?” Her eyebrows furrowed looking like a raptor’s wings in flight.

“My name. My name is Cullen,” he said.

“Oh! Amallia. Nice to meet you Cullen.” Her voice had a lilt to it, soft and low. She held out her hand.

Cullen stared at it a moment, hesitating briefly. He reached out and wrapped his hand around hers. Though his were large and enveloped hers easily, he was surprised to find her hand not dainty at all. She had a very firm grip and long, strong fingers. He noticed her nails were trimmed short and not lacquered.

“Now  _that’s_  a hand shake,” she said as she shook once more.

_Kind, seemingly intelligent, beautiful,_ and  _a sense of humor. I’m fucked._

He laughed nervously. “Do you … are you hungry?” he asked as he released her hand.

Amallia’s other hand went to her stomach, absent-minded. “Actually, yes, I’m starving, I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

_What the fuck am I doing?!_

“I um … I’ve got two orders of food from the diner around the corner,” he said as he hoisted the plastic bag.

She gave him a side-eyed smirk. “Cullen, do you always buy two orders of food and invite random strangers over for dinner?”

_AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!_

The mental scream echoed in his head for a second before he recovered. “No, I … well, I work weird hours, you see, and I don’t always get a chance to make food or go to the store. The next couple days are going to be awful and I was planning on eating the second half tomorrow. I’ll have to figure something else out for the weekend. I’m rambling now, aren’t I?”

She nodded. “Ramble on, Cullen,” she said in her low voice as she folded her arms across her chest. She leaned against the trim of the door as she waited for him to continue.

He blushed again and decided to call a retreat. “Never mind, I’ll just … have a good evening, Amallia,” he said with a tilt of his head and he turned on his heel for his door.

“I’d love to eat dinner with you,” she said.

Cullen whipped his head around. “You … you would?”

She smirked as she looked at her feet. “I was just joking about inviting strangers over for dinner, you know.”

He sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know, I’m just … a little flustered right now.”

“Understood,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Give me a few minutes to unpack this box and …” she trailed off as she watched him go to the door opposite hers and unlock it. An uncontrolled guffaw escaped her and she slapped a hand over her mouth. “Andraste’s tits, of course you’re right across the hall.”

Cullen doubled over with laughter at her curse. “Imagine my mind as you lead me nearly to my own door.”

Her hand returned to her mouth, covering another laugh. “Okay, ten minutes, I’ll be right back.”

“See you shortly.”

“Bye.”


	3. Guessing Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An idle chat.

Once in his apartment, Cullen could have screamed but with Amallia right across the hall she would most likely hear him. Instead, he just growled through gritted teeth. Nothing could have prepared him for this and he had no clue why he had invited his new neighbor over for dinner.

 _That’s patently false, you know_ exactly _why you invited her over, it’s because you’re a cretin, Cullen Rutherford, you’re a dirty, old man and you hit on young women and you’re disgusting._

Looking about his apartment he was glad that he had at least cleaned the previous weekend and nothing was too far out of place that he couldn’t organize it quickly. He set out two plates and some chopsticks, a set of silverware just in case, and two wine glasses. He rethought the wine glasses three times before he decided to set out a third, regular glass in case Amallia didn’t want wine.

He organized the cushions on the couch, the magazines on the coffee table, the candle on the end table, the remote, the blanket on the back of the sofa, the blu-ray rack, the …

_Calm the fuck down Rutherford, you’ve got this._

He was wiping the sweaty palms of his hands on his pants when there was a hard knock on his door. Quickly, he cross the living room and opened it.

She had changed and something about her face was ever so slightly different.

_Did she put on makeup just to eat dinner with me?_

Her hair was also partially tied back and off to the side. Her floor-length cotton dress was a bright royal blue. It matched her eyes perfectly, and contrasted well with her pale, freckled skin. Full, rosy, pale lips parted as he opened the door, and her winged eyes brightened when she saw him.

“I’m back,” she said with an inclination of her head.

He stepped aside and motioned her in. “Welcome.”

She looked around as she entered his flat. “Oh, this is so much better than my place! You are far superior at decorating than I am. My shit’s just … everywhere,” she said as she set down her bag on one of the stools of the kitchen bar.

He shrugged but she wasn’t looking. “I’m particular about my living spaces, I suppose.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t just being “particular”, though. You have an eye for layout. It feels so open and big even though our flats are identical. Mine is cramped and cluttered. You’ll have to show me how you do it,” she insisted as she turned to him.

“Is that an invitation to your place?” he asked.

She smirked again. “Maybe. What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken lo mein,” he said as he turned into the kitchen. “Is that okay?”

“Yup,” she said as she took a seat at the counter. “What about drinks?”

He froze. “Well,” he cleared his throat. “I … I drink wine, usually.”

She saw the two wine glasses on the counter. “Hrm, I don’t think I’m in a wine mood. Got anything else?”

“I don’t even know what’s in my fridge …” he trailed off as she hopped down from the stool and entered the kitchen.

“Mind if I raid it?” she asked. He shook his head.

With the refrigerator door open, she leaned over to look closely at the myriad of beer Cullen had stocked. He turned to ask her a question but when he saw her, she was still bent over. Her dress left little to the imagination, the soft cotton fabric clinging to her curves. He stared again as a need tightened in his stomach. Involuntary visions crept into his imagination and the room was too hot again.

“Can I have this one?” Amallia asked as she raised a bottle of beer over her shoulder and looked at him. She was still bent over and she had caught him staring. He tried to look away but wasn’t quick enough.

“Yup, that’s fine, whatever’s in there you can have,” he muttered into the palm of his hand in an attempt to hide his embarrassment.

She returned to the stool and opened her bottle with the top of the wine corkscrew on the counter. Thankfully, she said nothing, but while dishing up food, Cullen chanced a look and saw she was grinning and blushing as she stared at her bottle.

_Nice job, Rutherford, way to embarrass the woman._

He must have made a sound because she began laughing quietly through her beer, the back of her hand covering her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

Her eyes snapped up, watching him prepare their food. “For what?”

He motioned to the fridge. “For being awful,” he sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Oh, forget it,” she scoffed with a wave of her hand. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.”

The thought of other men ogling her made him oddly jealous. And the thought of being jealous when he hardly knew her pissed him off. The frustration must have been plain on his face, for Amallia commented as such.

“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” she asked as she leaned forward.

_EYES UP RUTHEFORD, DON’T FUCKING DO IT._

Cullen took a deep breath to steady himself as he finished dishing out the food. “No, you did nothing wrong. I am just really,  _really_ , bad at this.”

“At what?” she asked with a coy smile.

He glared at her with a grin. “I won’t insult your intelligence. You know what.”

She laughed, that lilting laugh, and it sent a shiver all over his body. “Touché,” she said with a toast of her beer. He relaxed at that, thankful for her sense of humor.

“We can either eat here and talk or watch a movie,” Cullen suggested as he pushed her plate towards her. He noticed too late that he had split the food directly in half and her portion was monstrous. There was no way she would eat all of it.

He considered her again, taking in her arms and shoulders. She was actually quite muscular and apparently worked out to some degree, enough so that she had clear muscle definition. It was refreshing to see that in a woman.

“Let’s eat here. I’d like to get to know my neighbor,” she said through her food. “Beware, I have no manners and talk with food in my mouth.”

Cullen had shoveled a large chunk of food into his mouth and attempted to chew it so he could respond, but she was waiting for a response from him. “Vaf’s okah, I duh too.”

She laughed loudly, obnoxiously even, and it was intoxicating. When she wanted to be cute, she could be cute, but when she didn’t hold back it was far better. Seeing her relax and be herself set a fire in his belly that he feared would get the better of him eventually.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked casually.

Brow furrowed, he stopped chewing another mouth-full as he looked at the food and then back at her. “Uh. Noffing?”

She rolled her eyes. “Seriously, how much do I owe you?”

Cullen swallowed his food and grinned. “I … don’t remember how much it was?”

“Okay, I already hate you,” she mumbled as she dug into her purse and got out her wallet. “Here, is ten bucks okay?”

“I don’t–”

“Please, just take it,” she demanded.

He took it and stuffed it in his front pocket. While he was irritated with taking money from a person he hardly knew, he appreciated the gesture.

 _Smart, funny, beautiful,_ and  _independent. Maker, be still my beating heart …_

“Well, Cullen,” she said before taking another bite. “What do you do for work?”

He swallowed again and, realizing he had no drink, decided on a beer instead of wine. From the refrigerator, he spoke. “I’m the COO at a security firm.”

“What?”

He closed the fridge and turned to her. “Is that … bad?”

She looked incredulous. “No, it’s not bad, it’s awesome. But you live in such a small place.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know if you noticed, but this place isn’t cheap.”

She grimaced. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I just figured with such an awesome job you could afford a house outside of town and commute.”

“Sure, I could. But I haven’t found the right house. I also don’t have a car,” he explained.

“You don’t?” she asked. “I do, I just hardly ever use it.”

It was his turn to grimace. “Well, that’s not entirely true.” He took another bite and a drink of his beer. “I do have a car but it’s not a commuter, at all.”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly. “Can I guess?! Let me guess!”

He paused. “Uh … go head.”

She set down her chop sticks and folded her hands in her lap as she considered him closely. She looked around his apartment, carefully taking in – well, he couldn’t quite tell what she was doing, but the look of scrutiny on her face was plain.

“'68 … no, wait …  _’67_ Mustang Fastback,” she stated with a firm nod of her head and a smirk.


	4. She Will Be the Death of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia shares her music with Cullen.

He was about to take another bite of food but froze midway. He straightened, eyes wide. “You’re shitting me, right?”

“What?” she looked worried. “Is that completely off-base. Do you have like a Mazda or something?”

“No. I  _have_ a ’67 fastback.”

She gave him a wiggle of her eyebrows. “Pretty good, huh?”

“That’s fucking creepy,” he uttered. “How?”

She looked to the ceiling with a roll of her eyes. “Well, I kind of cheated. I was in the garage earlier.”

“But there’s loads of cars in there!”

She shook her head. “No, there’s a load of average commuters in there. Except for maybe a handful of rally cars and a couple collector’s cars. Yours is the latter, obviously.  _Very_ good taste, if I might add.”

He grinned. “Thanks. I restored it.”

“Impressive. I’ve not done much work to mine, just aftermarket parts,” she said dismissively.

Interested piqued, he asked, “What do you drive?”

“2012 WRX STI hatch. I hardly drive it in town, but I have family nearby. And I take it to the track sometimes.”

_This woman is going to be the death of me._

“Now,  _that_ is impressive,” Cullen stated.

She shrugged. “It shouldn’t be. It’s just a hobby. Were I a man, it would almost be expected of me. It doesn’t make me exceptional just because I’m a woman and I know my car. Plenty of men don’t know shit about their cars.”

He laughed at that. “It’s true, and you’re right. But, it’s still something we have in common.”

She nodded in agreement. “Absolutely. So what else can we surprise each other with? I don’t even know your last name.”

“Rutherford,” he said through his food.

“Rutherford, that’s a good name. Trevelyan,” she said before filling her mouth with a large piece of chicken.

“Amallia Trevelyan,” he said with a roll of his tongue and she laughed through her nose.

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Cullen spoke up again. “What do you do for work?”

She cleared her throat. “A few things. I write and produce music, some freelance, but primarily for movies, t.v. shows, and commercials through major studios. I give piano lessons on the side. And I play keyboard in a local band.”

“Maker’s breath, you’re full of surprises,” Cullen said with an air of exasperation. “First it’s the car, now you’re musically talented. Damn, I’m jealous.”

She scoffed. “Anybody can learn piano, it’s easy.”

“Piano I could never quite get. Guitar, sort of, but not piano,” he conceded.

“Nonsense. You look like you can keep a beat and your voice is easy to listen to. I bet you would be great with a little practice,” she suggested.

“You … you like my voice?” Cullen squeaked.

She doubled up with laughter again. She pushed her plate away and grabbed her beer and her bag. Cullen realized her plate was completely empty.

When she rounded the counter and entered the kitchen, Cullen didn’t know what she was doing. She grabbed his hand firmly, the warmth and softness of her skin unmistakable.

“Come with me, I’ll show you,” she urged. She was close to him, the closest she had been since they met only an hour earlier. He noticed just how tall she was then, looking her right in the eye without looking down very far at all. Her icy blue stare threatened to swallow him whole.

“Please?” she asked, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

Cullen took a deep breath and grabbed his beer. “Of course,” he said as he exhaled and she squeaked with excitement. She led him to the door and opened it.

“Where are we going without shoes?”

“About three paces away,” she pointed to her door and smiled over her shoulder.

Apprehension washed over him. “Are you sure?”

“Cullen, it’s just an apartment. Besides, what I want to show you is in there,” she said with a matter of fact tone.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Alright.”

She breathed a laugh through her nose. “You’re cute, you know that?”

 _Ughsomebodyjustfuckingkillmenow_. “I uh … thanks?”

She laughed again as she unlocked her door. “Just making sure you know,” she said with a wink as she shouldered open her door again. “Ugh, I need to get that looked at.”

“Amallia—“

“Oh, please, call me Mal. I don’t know anybody that actually calls me Amallia,” she insisted.

“Mal,” he nodded his head. “The landlord won’t fix your door, I can guarantee it.” He entered her apartment when she motioned him through the door.

“I’ll have someone do it and I’ll bill the landlord then,” she said with a huff. “Never mind that though, follow me.” She strode down the hallway and it took all of Cullen’s willpower not to stare at the sway in her hips as she moved.

Amallia opened the spare bedroom door and Cullen followed. When he entered, she turned up a ceiling light with a dimmer, stopping at half way. She gestured to the room and he saw three keyboards, one of which was monstrous. The other two were smaller with a myriad of additional buttons on them and stacked one atop of the other in a single stand. On the floor was what appeared to be a guitar stand, but a keytar rested there. Several cables led from these devices to a mixing board and a laptop on a small desk. Three amps sat next to each other in the left corner opposite the stacked keyboards. In the near corner to his right, there was a guitar case and a saxophone case.

“You’re quite the musician,” he commented.

“Eh, I dabble. Sit with me?” she said as she sat at the bench in front of the large keyboard. With a few flipped switches and a turn of the volume knob on one of the amps, she appeared satisified.

He sat next to her at the edge of the bench and watched her place her hands on the keys. She gave him a sideways glance and smirked. “You don’t have to sit with half your ass hanging off the end of the bench. I don’t bite.”

“Hard?” Cullen asked as he scooted closer.

“Did you really just finish my super awful joke for me?” she asked, incredulous.

He scratched the back of his head. “I … Maker’s breath, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“Haven’t done this in a while?” she asked sounding genuinely concerned for him.

Cullen looked her right in the eye. “It’s been a very long time,” he said with a sigh. “Don’t get me wrong. There’s quite literally nothing wrong with me. I just don’t … I drove away the last person I lo … cared about. Not intentionally. I used to have some pretty severe psychological issues. And I was a lyrium addict. But, I’ve … I’ve been getting help for quite some time and I’m clean, now. I’m just not sure I’m good enough for someone else yet.”

She let her hands fall into her lap and turned to him. “Cullen, that has to be the most honest thing anybody has ever told me,” she said somewhat breathless. “I’m surprised you were comfortable telling me any of that.”

“Believe me, Mal, it surprises me, too. It sort of just … came out. I don’t know, but for whatever reason, the last couple hours have felt incredibly easy. I don’t normally meet people, I don’t invite people over for dinner, and I don’t have much of a social life. It was a very impulsive thing I did when I invited you over for dinner. I still don’t know why I did it.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing over his shirt. He watched her intently, seeing her respond to feeling him. It wasn’t much, but he saw her pupils dilate. She gave no other signs, no hints. “I don’t either, but I’m glad you did.”

He blushed as he looked at this hands in his lap. “I am, too.”

She smiled and returned her hands to the keys. His shoulder felt strangely cold now that her hand wasn’t there. “Enough of that. Now, what should I play?” She sat up straight with a wiggle, pulled her shoulders back, and grinned at him.

His brow furrowed. “You want me to pick?”

“Pick something.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” she said with a small shrug of the shoulder and a smirk on her lips.


	5. Performance I, Amallia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uptown Funk gonna give it to ya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was quite the indulgent chapter to write.

He thought for a minute and then started smiling. “Alright, this is going to sound ridiculous, but I heard this song the other day and it’s been  _stuck_  in my head. I can’t get it out, it’s like it’s on repeat.”

“Ear worms, ugh, I hate them! They make writing impossible,” she sympathized. “What is it?”

“Promise not to laugh, I seriously don’t listen to this kind of music regularly,” he assured her.

She giggled a little. “Cullen, I listen to  _everything_ , nothing will embarrass me.”

“Okay … ugh, I hate to admit that I really like this song,” he spat. Eyes screwed shut he blurted, “ _Uptown Funk_.”

“Cullen!”

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s awful!”

“No! That song is great!” she nearly shouted as she gave him a playful shove of the shoulder.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said sounding embarrassed again.

Amallia flew off the bench. “Stay there!” she commanded.

“Okay …” he muttered as he watched her work. She flipped on the other two amps and clicked the two smaller keyboards on. Next to the top keyboard, a large pair of studio headphones hung. She gingerly placed them atop her head, and started flipping keys and pressing buttons on both keyboards. Bobbing her head lightly to a beat only she could hear, she stood there for several seconds listening. Satisfied, she flipped another button and unplugged the headphone jack.

The opening beat and bass line of  _Uptown Funk_  faded in from two of the amps to Cullen’s left. Amallia quickly returned to the bench and placed her hands on the keyboard. Two more measures of the song passed and she came in with the part for rhythm guitar on her left hand, striking the keys sharp and short. Another measure passed and her left hand came in playing the horn line as she started singing.

> _This hit, that ice cold, Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold …_

He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He had seen people play piano before but it had never looked  _this_  fun. Amallia played as though it were for  _her_  enjoyment, not for those listening or watching. Her hands floated on the keys with expert precision, and her voice was exquisite. Her head and shoulders bobbed with the rhythm and her right heel kept time.

And then he watched the way the  _rest_ of her body moved. It was as though the music was flooding out from her. Her waist and hips gyrated in opposition to her head and shoulders. It was evident she felt music rather than listened to it. Watching her perform was a thrill.

> _I’m too hot (hot damn!)_  
>  _Call the police and the fire man_  
>  _I’m too hot (hot damn!)  
>  Make a  **dragon** wanna retire, man_

She was watching from the corner of her eye as she played, nudging him in the shoulder at the same spot when the chorus came around each time – when the backup lyrics “hot damn!” came up, she bumped him with her shoulder. She played through the whole song, seeming to know it perfectly. Once finished, she stopped the playback on the small keyboards.

“Well?” she asked through heavy breaths as she turned to him. She was clearly winded, a rosy color blossoming in her cheeks.

“Mal, that was … I can’t do it justice. No words will do. I wish I could offer something in return,” Cullen said growing solemn.

“You do have something,” she said. “That voice. I can hear it. It’s just begging to come out.  _Let it go_ ,” she said, singing the last three words.

He laughed at her. “No, it’s not that good, I promise. Nothing like yours. Andraste’s fiery nickers, your voice is wonderful.”

She gasped, faking a scandalized tone at his curse. “Thank you, Cullen. That means a lot to me. I don’t sing much, I wish I did. Sing for me at least?” she asked.

“What song?”

She looked to the guitar case. “You said you know some guitar right?”

He shrugged. “Enough to get by, I suppose.”

She retrieved the case for him and opened it. A beautiful Stratocaster in white pearl and electric blue lay before him. His eyes widened as she picked it up and handed it to him.

“Mal, I can’t, that’s …”

She gave him a flat look. “Cullen, I insist. It’s just a guitar,” she said as she gestured to him with it again.

He took it from her. The slender neck was cool to the touch and the body fit in his lap nicely. As he was admiring the finely crafted instrument, Amallia plugged in the pickup and the amp popped.

Muscle memory took over and he strummed with his fingers. Open fretted, it sounded the familiar blend of mixed notes. From his right, she handed him a pick as she set the case down on the floor.

She watched him tune the guitar on his own, not once asking her for a pitch from the keyboard. An eyebrow had crept up near her hairline as she watched his meticulous adjustments, a slight tightening here, loser there. Satisfied, he looked at her, right hand resting on the strings.

“Are you sure you’re not a musician?” she asked with a suspicious glare.

He laughed at that. “Nope, just doing what little I know.”

“You do  _know_  that most people can’t tune a guitar by ear, right? Strum low E,” she said and as he did, she pressed a low E on the keyboard. It was perfectly in tune.

“Now A,” she ordered. As before, the guitar was perfectly tuned. She checked each string this way and to Cullen’s surprise, they were all perfect.

“I have an idea, but I want to make sure I’m right before I suggest it,” she said. “Got any favorite songs for guitar?”

He thought for a moment, wondering what she could have possibly meant by her idea, but decided to ignore that. A song came to mind quickly, but he was still considering what she meant earlier when she had said she listened to “everything”.

“This song is … kind of new. And I don’t think any regular radio stations have picked it up,” he explained. “It’s called  _Wish_.”

Her eyes widened as she drew in a breath. “No, you’ve got to be joking.”


	6. Performance II, Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen can sing a bit, too.

“You know it?” he asked somewhat surprised.

She nodded vigorously. “If you’re talking about the song by Lifehouse, then yes, I know that song  _very_  well,” she assured him.

“It was just a random song I heard on public radio,” he said. “I liked it. Reminds me of an old Beatles tune. I bought the album it’s on and I really enjoy it.”

“I’ve been listening to Lifehouse for years. I love them,” she said with a grin. “I am kind of crazy about them.”

He laughed. “Well, now I know what tickets to buy,” he joked.

She was taken aback by that. “You … you would do that?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“That’s incredibly thoughtful of you,” she muttered.

He grew curious then; if tickets to a concert of her favorite band was something she considered so thoughtful, he wondered what kind of people she had been with in the past. They must not have been very thoughtful, he concluded.

She noticed his silence and gave him a nudge on the shoulder. “Sing it for me?” she asked with a hopeful quirk of her eyebrow.

“Give me a second? I just need to strum through a few chords first, make sure I know it,” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she said as she turned to watch him.

He began humming to himself, softly, and strummed the chords as they came along. He went quickly, just to remind himself that he knew what he was doing.

“Okay, I’m good,” he said and she nodded in response.

He took a deep, clarifying breath and began.

> _So you found, a better hiding place than on the ground …_

The music washed over him, the softly plucked notes and his voice consumed his concentration. He sang the words from his heart, hitting too close to home. But it was too late to stop; he didn’t want to let Amallia down or disappoint her. He closed his eyes with a furrowed brow and pressed on. Heat crept up his neck to color his cheeks. The world melted away as he continued, his voice filling his head, and everything around him ceased to exist. It was just him, the guitar, and the music.

> _I wish the best of everything for you_  
>  _Hope you know that honestly I do_  
>  _How long can you run_  
>  _Turn your back on everyone  
>  _ _Just let me know  
>  _ _When you’re tired of being alone_

By the time the song had ended, he had closed his eyes. When he opened them, Amallia faced him with lips ever so slightly parted in surprise. Her eyes glistened, brimming with tears.

“That bad?” he whispered as a worried grimace tugged at the right corner of his mouth.

She shook her head as she turned away to carefully wipe at her face. “Oh my, no, I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting that, I get a little emotional about music in general.” He heard her sniffle a bit.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he touched her shoulder.

Without warning, fire lanced through his fingertips, up his arm, and spread across his whole body. Her skin was smooth and incredibly warm. Her muscles rippled under his touch and gooseflesh broke out across her skin. When she spoke, her voice pulled his attention back to reality.

“Oh, I’m fine. No, I’m great, Cullen, that was amazing! Your voice is … ugh, we have to sing together,” she insisted.

Surprised, he was unsure of how to respond. “It was that good?”

She gave him a wide-eyed stare. “You sing  _very_ well,” she insisted as she touched his arm. The heat sparked anew, inundating his senses with a heady rush. She continued, “And you’re not half bad on the guitar either.” She motioned for him to hand it to her. “But, the song I’m going to suggest next doesn’t have one, so I’ll put it away.”

He handed the instrument to her cautiously. “What song?”

“It’s from the same Lifehouse album. It’s called  _Hourglass._ ”


	7. Performance III, Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia thinks she's immune to romance in general, but she proves herself wrong.

_Oh shit._

“Hour … you really want to sing Hourglass?” he asked with a scrunch of his nose.

She turned back to him after putting the guitar away. “Why not?”

“It’s … I mean … you obviously know the lyrics,” he stated.

She nodded. “So?”

“I don’t know how to say this without being rude, but that’s … ugh, this is awful, I can’t even think straight,” he growled.

She smiled. “Cullen, I’m perfectly aware of what the song is about. Right now, it doesn’t have to mean any more than a couple musicians having fun together.” She put her hand on his to reassure him. “Don’t worry. I’m in no rush.”

He sighed in relief. “Thank you, Mal. For understanding.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Like I said, it’s been a while. I want to do what’s best for me. And this happening today is just so random. And sudden. I’m glad you get where I’m coming from. It’s strange though,” he paused as he turned to her. “I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

She was staring him in the eye, leaning towards him. “I absolutely know what you mean.”

Locking his eyes on hers at that moment was nearly impossible. She was leaning over her leg where it was propped up on the bench. He would barely have to move his stare and he would have a clear view …

_Stop that!_

“Ready?” he asked a little loudly. It was enough to snap them both out of their silence. Amallia took a deep breath and wiped her hands on her dress.

“Yes,” she sighed, sounding equally as flustered as he felt. With a roll of her shoulders, she brought her hands to the keys and settle into position. Softly, she played. Several measures passed and she gave the phrase a slight lilt, slowing the tempo as she looked to him. He followed her lead and began to sing.

> _Time traveling, moving at the speed of light  
>  Moments we are gathering are the key to life_

She continued to play the accompanying melody as he sang, and his focus battled between the words, his voice, and her hands on the keys.

> _A picture in a frame takes me to a place in time  
>  When I saw the future with your heart in mine_

The chorus tested his resolve to continue singing, to push past the raw, tight, sting in the center of his chest.

> _Said you’ll know_  
>  _You’ll know when I give you everything_  
>  _Everything I am_  
>  _And we’ll go_  
>  _We’ll go together hand-in-hand_  
>  _Slipping through the hourglass home_

His heart was racing and it took all of his effort to remain calm. She was playing so delicately, but with a confident press of the keys. Not striking them, like before; a much lighter, sensual press. His imagination ran wild with the thought of her hands touching him the same way.

> _I can’t help it if I’m wondering_  
>  _Is it all just make-believe?_  
>  _Everything that we’ve been through_  
>  _Always you and me_

  
At that last line, she added her voice to his, singing the harmony. Hers lilted softly above his, complimenting, completing.

> _Is it so?_  
>  _Is it so, when I ask myself_  
>  _Could this be a dream?_  
>  _We’ll know_  
>  _We’ll know together hand-in-hand_  
>  _Slipping through the hourglass home_

Their voices melded together as though they were one. He forced himself to keep watching her, making sure he knew exactly how the song was affecting her, to see if it was doing to her what it did to him.

> _And my love_  
>  _It doesn’t matter where we are_  
>  _I lay down it all, for all I am_  
>  _Is all we’ll be_

He had known this song was going to be tough, but the bridge had been harder than imagined. His past flooded his memory and he had to force it away to focus on the present, on the person in front of him, on her.

> _And You’ll know_  
>  _Yes, you’ll know_  
>  _When I give you everything_  
>  _Everything I am_  
>  _And we’ll go_  
>  _We’ll go together hand-in-hand_  
>  _Slipping through the hourglass home_
> 
> _Together hand-in-hand  
>  Slipping through the hourglass home_

She finished on the piano, ending with a soft roll of the last chord. Her hands fell into her lap as she sighed, head tilted down, and Cullen saw that she had closed her eyes. He watched her for a moment before he took her hand in his.

A moan so soft escaped her, Cullen thought he may have imagined it. When she squeezed his hand, relief replaced his anxiety and he edged a little closer on the bench. His leg meet hers as she met him half way. When he looked up to her again she was smiling, eyes bright and free of any hint of sadness.

“So much for it just being a song between musicians,” she quipped, voice weak and unsure.

He laughed softly, a deep rumble in his chest. “Oh well.”

“Can we just … stay here?”

“Forever?”

She laughed her lilting laugh again but her smile faded quickly. “I don’t … I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she whispered as she tilted her head to rest on his shoulder.

He considered her a moment, attempting to think rationally about what she had said, but failed. He knew leaving then was the right decision, but he remained firmly planted on her piano bench, leaning into her as she rested against him. Warmth radiated from her, the bare skin of her arm on his. He had not felt anything remotely close to this in so many years, it was impossible for him to disregard it, turn from it, run from it as he should. The tightness in his chest constricted further at the thought of leaving her alone.

“Do you want me to stay?”

She shrugged against him. “If you’re okay with that. I don’t … want anything from you. Just your company. I haven’t felt this good in a really long time.”

He shivered, knowing exactly what she meant. “I have to work in the morning.”

“As do I,” she responded.

“I’ll make breakfast?” he suggested.

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she said with a soft moan. The sound of it set off an ache in Cullen he wasn’t prepared to handle.

“Mal?”

“Yes, Cullen?”

“Can I sleep in your bed?” he asked only half-joking.

She scoffed. “Where else would you sleep?”

“The couch?”

She sat up to face him, the same flat look on her face again. “Mr. Rutherford, I promise not to take advantage of you.”

He laughed heartily to hide his embarrassment. “There’s nothing to take advantage of at this point. I’m … it’s as if I had no walls to begin with. You’ve torn them down in a matter of hours.”

“You want my honest opinion, Cullen?” she asked.

“Sure,” he replied.

“Your voice was all it took. The second you spoke to me at the front door to the building, you had me, hook, line, and sinker. Is that bad?”

The ache in the pit of his stomach grew and he no longer had control. It spread, flooded his body, down his legs to his feet, and up his chest to his neck. He wasn’t sure what he should do and he was worried that acting on impulse would drive her away. She was staring at him, waiting for a response, lips parted slightly, eyes wide.

When he didn’t respond, she frowned. “Cullen?”


	8. Another Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more song, a different tune, and Cullen learns just how wonderful Amallia's voice can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very NSFW (sexy times)
> 
> Update: Now, with art!

Her face was only a few inches away. He could almost feel her nose touching his, her breath hot against his lips. It was her brilliant blue stare that tipped him over the edge.

His lips found hers in a rush, pressing greedily against them. An instant of panic wracked his entire body when he felt her pull away, but it passed as quickly as it came. She returned the kiss two-fold, rising up onto her knee. She slipped the other leg over his lap, dress rucked up around her thighs, far too high to be decent.

Her tongue slipped into his mouth and he tasted the sweetness of her with the lingering tang of beer. It was perfect. She was perfect. He slipped his hands around her to the small of her back and pulled her closer to him, wanting to feel her against him. He swallowed her moans, wanting all of her to himself.

She pulled away suddenly. “Cullen, I’m sorry, this isn’t what you wanted.”

“Shut up,” he growled as he kissed her, his lips crashing onto hers. She moaned deep in her chest, her hands slipping into his blonde waves and grasping tight handfuls of them.

He was losing his grip on everything but he no longer cared. Cullen knew what he wanted now and he was going to take it since it was obvious she wanted the same from him. He felt the press of her lithe body grinding her core against him with a roll of her hips. He slipped his right hand down her thigh until he passed the hem of her dress, touching her smooth skin.

The swell of his erection flexed against her sex and she felt it. It elicited a soft  _oh!_ from her and she bucked her hips in response. The motion of her against him set his world on fire and he had to have her then. There was no turning back. The tightness between his legs was unbearable. As he slipped his hand up her thigh, his thumb brushed her sex through her underwear, finding them soaked through. His fingers extracted another deep moan from her and she pressed close, her need of him palpable.

She pulled him from their kiss with a firm grip on his hair. The tingle at his scalp sent waves of pleasure down his spine and he gasped. He saw in her eyes a primal lust and he wanted to sate it for her.

“My bed room is at the end of the hall,” she suggested, voice hungry and low with desire.

He slipped his other hand beneath the hem of her dress, then softly ghosted both hands over the supple curve of her ass to pick her up as he stood. He watched as her eyes rolled into the back of her head as they closed with a soft moan.

With her arms draped around his neck and legs wrapped around his waist, he carried her to her room. It was dark and he could hardly see anything besides the bed. She tapped him on the shoulder and said, “There’s a lamp next to the bed, far side.”

Gently, he laid her down on her back and firmly planted his right thigh between hers. He felt her roll her hips against him again, grinding her cunt against his muscled thigh. He leaned over and reached for the lamp, flipping the switch.

Warm light flooded the room and when he looked down, he saw her beneath him. Her dress was rucked up to reveal dark blue underwear, cotton with lace trim. Simple, but on her muscular frame they looked positively scandalous.

Her purple waves spread in a halo around her head, dark in contrast to the stark white of the beddings. Her dress was no longer doing anything to hold her in place, her breasts threatening to spill out. With her arms above her head, she lay there and watched as he marveled at her, sex incarnate.

With his left leg, he pinned her right thigh down and he grabbed both of her wrists in one hand, pinning them to the bed. His lips met hers with a ferocity that scared himself and he wondered where the urge had come from.

She squealed against his insistent kiss, wriggling beneath him. He pulled back, worried he had gone too far.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

With wide-eyes, she bit her bottom lip and nodded vigorously. “Such a gentlemen,” she said as she bucked against his thigh again. “Don’t stop.”

“I don’t … know where I’m going with this,” he muttered as he gestured with her wrists.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re pinning me to the bed, Cullen. Keep going,” she urged with another roll of her hips. “You know what you want.” The coy smile returned.

“Oh, Maker, I do,” he moaned as he kissed her again, pinning her entirely to the bed. He felt her writhe beneath him, against his entire body, and his world toppled over, head spinning in a rush of arousal. The intensity with which he felt for her surprised him; he had just met her and yet he wanted to know more, learn everything about her, learn every inch of her body.

She bucked her hips against him again, insistent on pleasuring herself. When she did it again, he pulled away from her, releasing her wrists. She cried out for him, a soft whine, not wanting him to stop. He reached down to the hem of her dress and pulled it up a little higher. She sat up, grabbed the fabric and tore it off over her head unceremoniously. Her breasts fell free and bounced softly as she laid back down.

With a rasping sigh, Cullen lunged for her neck, lips leaving a trail of white hot kisses down to her collar. His hands slid up her stomach, over her ribs, and cupped both breasts, kneading them gently. He rolled pert nipples between his thumb and forefinger and she gasped a hissing moan, high and long.

Down her collar, he let his lips glide as he licked and nipped at her flesh. Between her breasts, he licked a long and slow trail with the tip of his tongue and her back arched in response. Lower, he kissed the smooth skin of her stomach, feeling the ripple of her tense muscles.

She mewled softly in anticipation as he neared her most sensitive flesh. Her pelvis rolled up to meet him, but he skipped over her mound and kissed her inner thigh. She cried out a frustrated moan as she gathered the covers of her bed in balled fists.

He slipped his hands back down her stomach to her core, hooking her underwear as he passed her hips. Dragging it down and around her ass, he left them at her ankles. Back up the inside of her calf and thigh, he pressed the flat of his fingers lightly against her lips and she shivered at his touch.

She rolled her hips against his hand, wanting more. She moaned softly, more of a whimper than anything. He lingered here, not entering her, but so close, barely touching her folds. His breath was hot on her thighs and cunt, and he felt her twitch under his touch.

“Mal.”

“Yes, Cullen?” she replied.

“I want you to beg,” he said.

She gasped. “Oh, Cullen, please,” she mewled in a high voice.

He groaned at the sound of his name in her voice. Pressing gently, he slipped one finger between her lips, her soaking cunt easily taking him in. She sighed in ecstasy and bucked in response, back arching. He stopped to withdraw his finger entirely and she whined and writhed in frustration

“I’m not moving until you lay back down,” he whispered, breath hot against her skin.

She collapsed on the bed in a huff. “Please, Cullen,” she whispered.

The need in her voice was driving him mad. He returned one finger followed quickly by a second, gliding in easily. With slow soft strokes, he slid in and out of her. She moaned softly and writhed as she tried to keep from bucking her hips again.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes, Cullen, more,” she pleaded.

His thumb eased between her lips to the bundle of nerves at her apex, rubbing circles around it. She cried out in ecstasy, her hands finding her own breasts, cupping and squeezing them together. Watching her pleasure hardened his own erection and he wanted nothing more than to take her right then.

But he resisted the urge, not wanting to rush. He slowed his strokes and withdrew from her, and she gasped at the sudden emptiness. It was quickly replaced by his tongue, first lapping up her arousal from the outside of her lips, then spreading her, slipping between them and then into her.

She might as well have screamed for how loud she was moaning. His tongue pressed into her, then licked up and circled her bundle of nerves. He heard a thump as she grabbed a pillow and put it over her face so she could moan as loud as she wanted without anyone else hearing.

He could feel her tightening, twitching around his tongue. He wanted to see her come undone around him, watch her take her pleasure from him and know he had given it to her. He wrapped his arms under her thighs, lifting them to his shoulders. She hissed through gritted teeth as his tongue plunged further inside her, as far he could to pleasure her better.

He swirled circles around her sensitive bud, pressed the flat of his tongue against it and sucked it into his mouth. Pulling with his lips, he licked softly at her pearl. She moaned in rhythm with the strokes of his tongue. She threw the pillow from her face and grabbed his hair, her entire body flexing. “Yes, Cullen, I’m … I’m going to come!”

“Come for me,” he commanded. She gripped his hair tightly, pressing his face into her cunt. He watched her stomach flex, tighten, and her moans came sharper, shallow, more rapid. Her thighs flexed and she unraveled before him.

“Oh yes, Cullen, yes!” she cried out and he felt her release, squeezing repeatedly beneath his tongue. She collapsed back on the bed as he stood before her, licking his lips clean of her.

She was breathing heavily, her skin flush all over her body. She glared at him as he stood before her. “How are you still dressed?!”

He looked down to find she was correct. He was completely clothed. With one swift motion, he pulled his shirt up over his head and tossed it on the floor.

“ _Oh, Maker’s breath …_ ”

It wasn’t the response he was expecting but it was not a bad one either. He was aware that he was attractive, but the way that she looked at his shirtless body made him feel incredible. She sat up and pulled him between her legs. He went to unbutton his pants but she swatted his hands away.

He obliged, putting his hands on his waist as he watched her. His belt was gone in seconds and then she popped the button and slid the zipper down slowly. She slipped her hands in at his hips and then wrapped them around to his ass, tugging his pants down. They fell to his ankles and she stopped to stare at him.

He was well muscled and wore a black pair of box briefs. They hugged every edge, every curve and every angle. She took a finger and traced the lines of his muscles from his chest, down his stomach, out over his hip and down the angled muscle to the waist band of his underwear.

Her other hand slip up his thigh to the swell of his balls, and she cupped him through his briefs. He hissed in a breath and moaned at her touch. She continued, her hand rubbing up over his cock, past the tip, and stopped at the waist band.

She grabbed the band and tugged it down. His erection fell before him, standing straight up. It was inches from her face and his breathing became ragged, hitching in his throat.

With her right hand she wrapped her fingers around the base of the shaft, and with the left she cupped him again. He put his hands over hers giving her pause.

“You don’t—“

“Cullen,” she interrupted.

“Yes, Mal?”

“Shut up.”

He grinned a wicked grin at her and she returned it in kind. He stared wide-eyed as she brought her lips to the tip of his cock, barely touching him and her breath hot against his sensitive skin. He ached to feel her envelope him and his cock twitched with need.

Her tongue slipped out slowly and softly licked the back of the head at the juncture of shaft and tip. He groaned loudly and ran both of his hands through his hair. He left one at the back of his neck and set the other low on his back at the hip.

“Beg,” she demanded.

His eyes widened as he watched her hovering so close, lips parted and ready for him. “Please, Mal, take me.”

Without another second of hesitation, she gently wrapped her lips around the head of his cock and sucked him into her mouth. The warmth and the velvety smoothness of her tongue enveloping him threatened to undo him right there. But he let out a growling moan and regained his composure.

She withdrew him and stroked at the same time, repeating the motion. In and out, she took him into her mouth and her tongue swirled around the tip with each pump. He could have released there but he wanted to save himself. He held on for as long as he could, hands wrapping up in her hair. She quickened her pace, and his moans shortened. He was too close now and had to stop her before it was too late.

He pulled back from her as he gripped her hair. She looked startled for a moment before she understood.

“I want to fuck you” she whispered.

“Oh yes, Mal,” he replied with a moan as he knelt on the bed to lie next to her.

She straddled him, thighs wide, and pressed her cunt against the thickness of his erection. He moaned at the new sensation, excitement renewed. She was so wet, her arousal coating him from tip to base. She rocked her hips against him, readying him. He reached up to her breasts, grabbing them in both hands and rolling the nipples.

She moaned as she reached down between them and grasped him, pressing the tip of his cock against her entrance. He felt the heat of her need, felt just how much she wanted him. He wanted to be inside her, to fill her and come in her and he saw that want reflected in her eyes.

But she held him there, just outside, the tip just pressing against her folds. She grinned at him, and he bucked his hips. She had been ready and moved away, still holding him.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes,” he insisted.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

“Mal, I want you to fuck me,” he growled.

She moaned at his words. “Beg for it.”

“Please, Mal, fuck me. I want you to ride me until I come, please, just-  _Oh, fuck!”_  She never let him finish his sentence. With his insistent pleas, she had slipped the head of his cock between her lips and then thrust herself down onto him heavily. She moaned with him loudly, the sudden fullness painful but quickly turning into the most extreme pleasure. She rocked her hips there once, twice, and then pulled her hips up, stroking him with the soft walls of her cunt.

He grabbed her at the waist, wanting more of her. She started out slowly though, teasing him. Back down the length of his cock, she set a slow rhythm to start. Up and down, she fucked him, gaining speed with each stroke. His hands slipped over her hips down to her ass and he grabbed her there hard, digging his fingers into her supple flesh.

Faster yet, she gathered speed, riding him in earnest. He watched her breasts bounce with her motion, gasping and moaning with her. She planted her hands on his chest, fingers raking, leaving trails of red skin in their wake. He hissed in response to her touch, hips thrusting in time with hers. With his right hand, he brought his thumb to his mouth, wetting it. He reached down between them, gliding his thumb between her parted lips to draw lazy circles around the the swollen bundle of nerves at her bud.

She shuddered atop him and it was a sight to behold. His length twitched inside her, marveling at the pleasure she took from him and he wanted to give her more. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his waist as she sucked in a sharp breath from his touch.

Perfection. She fit around him like the perfect shirt, smooth, snug, and warm. He felt the walls of her squeeze him, his cock responding to the pressure with a flexing of muscles. The tightness in his balls pressed further into him and he had to hold back the want for release.

When she slowed and came to stop he looked up to her with concern.

“I changed my mind,” she said with a coy smile as she leaned over him. The smooth, sweat-slicked skin of her breasts rested on his chest, sending sparks of fire all over his body. With her lips against his ear, she whispered, “I want you to fuck me.”

He  _growled_  as he wrapped his arms around her and sat up. “Show me how.”

She lifted herself off of him, and bent over next to him on the bed. “Like this,” she said as she swayed her hips slightly with her ass in the air.

He stared at her a moment, her back arched as she rested on her knees and forearms. Rising up behind her, he drank in her form. With his left hand, he ghosted a finger down the center of her back, watching as the goosebumps broke out across her flesh. Over the small of her back, he grasped her by the crook of her hip and pulled her to him. “Here?” He had his cock in the other had and he was pressing the tip of it against her cunt.

“Oh yes, Cullen, like that,” she moaned

He didn’t enter her, not at first. He teased her like she had teased him, pressing just the tip to her lips and slipping it up against her clit. She moaned again, her hips rolling against his cock.

“Please, Cullen, fuck me,” she begged with a whisper.

“Tell me how,” he commanded, voice low and hungry for her.

“I want you to fuck me hard, Cullen, fuck me until I can’t walk,” she mewled, voice creeping higher in anticipation.

He pressed the tip against the center of her opening and then thrust into her deeply. She screamed into her mattress, face flush with the beddings. He withdrew and thrust again, deeper still, repeating the motion. She rolled her hips in rhythm with his thrusts and moaned for him. “Oh, yes, Cullen, more, fuck me.”

He thrust faster, repeatedly pistoning into her. The sound of her flesh meeting his aroused him further. His release was building with hers, tightening in his abdomen. His cock twitched inside of her, feeling her walls squeeze around him with her impending orgasm.

“Mal, I want you to come with me,” he pleaded.

“Yes, Cullen, keep going,” she urged.

He gripped her by the hips, thrusting harder and pulling her onto him,  _needing_  his release. Her moans were coming sharper, more shallow and irregular. The pitch in her pleasure crept higher until she was crying out for him as her whole body shuddered in release, squeezing him inside of her. She moaned his name, and as she flexed again, he came with a growl in her ear as he leaned over her back, rutting into her with the last of his orgasm.

Her arms shook as she lowered herself to the bed. Cullen withdrew from her and began searching frantically for anything to help clean her. She motioned to the hamper and muttered, “There’s a washcloth in it, on top.”

With the towel in hand, he returned to her and pressed it against her sex as the results of their pleasure leaked from her. She took over, wiping up what she could, then threw the rag back at the hamper where it landed squarely in the center.

Cullen collapsed next to her on his side. He simply watched her ride the lingering waves of her orgasm, breathing deep and slowly as she came down from her high. He hooked an arm around her hips and tugged her close to him.

When she met his eyes with hers, she smiled brightly.

“Was that …”

“Cullen, that was fantastic,” she mumbled through her hands as she covered her face. “I haven’t had sex like that in  _years_. I had no idea what I was missing.”

“It’s been quite a while for me, too,” he admitted as he drew lazy circles on her stomach with his fingertips. “And I loved  _every_ second of it.”

She laughed softly again with her lilting voice. “Maybe it was just meant to be. Fate brought us together today.” She sat up and began rearranging pillows as she pulled down the sheets.

“Maybe. I’m willing to see where it goes,” he said.

She stopped what she was doing and turned back to him. “Do you … want to do this again?”

“As long as you do,” he said with a hopeful smile.

She grinned at that. “Oh, I … I definitely want to do this again.” She jumped off the bed and turned down the other side of the sheets.

“I’m exhausted,” she said as she motioned to the bed. “Which side?”

“I don’t care,” he shrugged as he got up from the bed. He watched her climb in to the far side and crawl under the covers.

He slipped in next to her and she scooted back in close to him after flipping off the light. The feeling of her against him was indescribable. She draped an arm across his chest and a leg over his hip. He stroked her hair softly as she fell asleep beside him. Within minutes, he followed, dreaming of her.


	9. Solo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then she was gone.

Cullen startled awake. Something had pulled him out of a deep sleep, a softly snapping  _snict_ from far off in a nightmare, the withdrawal symptoms returning. He knew something was wrong immediately.

When he turned to the other side of the bed, he found it empty and the sheets cold to the touch. He rolled out of the bed and put his briefs on to check the apartment. When he entered the kitchen, he found half a pot of coffee still hot and a written letter on the table.

He snatched the piece of paper and read as quickly as he could.

_Dear Cullen,_

_I am so sorry. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I feel as though I made a grave mistake last night and I should not have allowed it to happen. While I thoroughly enjoyed myself, it is not something I am prepared to handle at this time._

_Please don’t look for me. I am making arrangements to move out of my apartment today and I will be out of your way. You deserve better than I can give you and I don’t want to prevent you from finding that._

_Yours,_

_Mal_

He slumped into a chair in her kitchen and wept. Minutes passed as he reread her letter several times, trying to find a hidden message, something he missed. Nothing. The letter was as plain as possible. She was gone.

After he had cried until he was numb, he dressed and left in a stupor, crossing the hall to his apartment. He thought of calling in to work so he could wait for her to come back for her things and talk with her, figure out what he had done wrong. Clearly, she was distraught and he had pushed her too far.

He concluded that if waited for her it would only serve to upset her further. So he went to work and experienced the worst day in his life.

His co-workers could tell there was a problem. At lunch, Delrin asked him what was going on.

“You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“I  _feel_  like I got hit by a truck,” Cullen muttered through his sandwich.

“Why did you come in, then?” Krem asked as he sat down next to him in the restaurant.

Cullen shrugged. “Didn’t want to stay at home. Got a lot of work to do, too.”

“That sounds like an excuse. What happened, Rutherford, spit it out,” Raleigh demanded sitting opposite him next to Delrin.

For a reason unbeknownst to him, Cullen told them. Well, he told them  _most_  of what happened, keeping all of the more personal details to himself.

Delrin had the decency to look astonished, but Raleigh, the ass, clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done.”

Cullen groaned. “No, it is  _not_  ‘well done’, this fucking blows. I meet a woman at random, have what  _I_  would consider to be the best evening in a decade, and she just … disappears. Poof,” he imitated with a wave of his hand.

“She lives across the hall, it’ll be hard to miss her moving out,” Delrin suggested.

Cullen nodded, agreeing. “I want to see if I can talk with her tonight after work.”

“You should go now,” Delrin insisted.

Cullen shook his head. “No, I don’t want it to look like I camped out to wait for her. She pretty much asked me to  _not_  do that.”

Raleigh shrugged. “I don’t know what the big deal is. You had a good time, got laid, and now she’s out of your hair. What’s the issue?”

Cullen glared at him. “This wasn’t just a one night stand, Raleigh. It’s different. Completely different.”

“Whatever, mate, you’re loss,” Raleigh said as he began eating.


	10. Double Withdrawal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen suffers from a shock of withdrawal.

The rest of the afternoon passed so slowly that by four o'clock, Cullen felt like he was going to be sick again. He ran most of the way back to his apartment, eager to catch Amallia as she came home. He fumbled his keys in the lock of the main door where he had first seen her, climbed the steps two at a time where he had followed her, and jogged down the hallway where she had led him to her door.

But by the time he was in front of it, all of his will to seek her out had deserted him. He just stood there, staring at the door to her apartment, numb and frightened. Sweat broke out on his brow and the back of his neck. His hands shook as he balled them into fists, sucking ragged breaths through gritted teeth as the withdrawal symptoms threatened to consume him.

Another door down the hall had opened and a short, stocky man exited. When he saw Cullen staring at the door at the end of the hall, he spoke up.

“What’s up, Curly?”

Cullen startled. He hadn’t heard the door open nor had he seen the man approach him. Cullen turned to his side-eyed stare.

“Nothing, Varric,” he muttered as he turned for his door. It was only two steps away and yet he stumbled, catching himself on the trim.

“Hey, are you alright?” Varric asked as he took a few quick steps toward his neighbor.

Cullen grunted a sigh, forehead planting on his door. “I’ll be …” he began but couldn’t finish, groaning in pain.

Varric reached him and put a supporting hand under Cullen’s upper arm. “Damn, man, you’re on fire. You sick?”

“No,” he growled. “Just … don’t feel well.”

The shorter man took the keys from Cullen’s bumbling fingers when he failed to get the key in the lock. “Here, I’ll get it.”

Cullen groaned but acquiesced, knowing he’d never make it in the door without Varric’s help. Chills took over and his shoulders shook violently. From the corner of his eye, he could see Varric’s stunned face as he pushed the door open.

He pitched forward as the support of the door pushed away. Varric caught him, and though he was short, he was easily strong enough to support Cullen’s slumped body. He tried to tell Varric to put him on the couch, only managing to grumble incoherent words and point with a shaky finger. Varric hoisted him up on one shoulder and dragged him towards the couch.

He landed roughly on the cushions as Varric leaned over, the room spinning sickeningly. He slumped to his side, head landing on a pile of pillows near the arm.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Cullen shook his head as hard as he could. “No,” he choked. “Just water. And a blanket.”

Varric disappeared in a blur and Cullen heard running water behind him. When he returned, Varric set the cup on the floor near Cullen’s hand and spread a blanket over him.

“Do you know what happened?” Varric asked.

Cullen’s brow furrowed, eyes squeezing shut as he lifted his lower body onto the couch. “What are you talking about?”

He gestured to the hallway. “The woman across from you. She moved out today. She just moved in less than a week ago.”

He wasn’t sure if the tears came because of the pain of withdrawal or because of Varric’s news. “She’s gone?”

“I cancelled her contract this morning. She had three other people here helping her move her shit. Took all morning and most of the afternoon. I just saw her half an hour ago with what looked like the last box. I checked; the flat is empty.”

A headache crashed into him with blinding force. Through gritted teeth, he uttered, “No, I don’t know what happened, Varric.”

Silence stretched on as Varric stood at the end of the couch, unmoving. Cullen peaked through the slit of his eyelids, wondering what the man was doing. “You can go, I’ll … be okay.”

“Is there anybody I should call?”

_He could call her. You know he has her phone number._

“No,” he grunted as his body seized in a spasm. “You can … you can go, I’ll be fine.”

With a second of hesitation, Varric sighed and made for the door. “I’ll come back in the morning, make sure you’re alright.”

“Thanks,” Cullen said as best as he could, voice feeble and broken. When the door shut, he groaned into the pillow, fading to a cry in the ache of his withdrawal. Throbbing, undulating pain ebbed only to return minutes later worse than before. His headache slammed behind his eyes with renewed force every hour. He slept in short fits, ten minutes here, twenty minutes there, never able to sit still long enough to get the rest he needed.

Nothing would help the pain or symptoms without taking the drug itself again. And he was not about to turn back down that path. That way lay a darkness to which he refused to return. Even though he was alone, lyrium would only abandon him to madness. At least now he had control.

He regretted letting Varric leave without contacting Amallia. He regretted everything he had done the night before, wishing he could take it all back, start over. Simply introduce himself and then hide in his apartment. Let her come to him if she was interested.

And then he remembered her lips on his, her hair falling over their faces. He remembered the way she smelled, earthy, like pine and sea salt. He remembered the way she felt pressed against him, her entire body melting into his.

After hours of pain, the overwhelming aches consumed him and he slept deeply. When he woke in the middle of the night, he shuffled to bed fully clothed, sleeping through fitful nightmares.


	11. A Familial Berating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia's sister, Karris, and their cousin, Dorian, give her shit.

Amallia dropped onto the couch in her cousin’s apartment. Most of her furniture had been moved into storage, but all of her boxes were piled in the living room. In the days since she had left her apartment, she had only seen it reasonable to unpack some clothes.

“Thanks again for letting me stay here, Dorian, I really appreciate it,” she smiled over her cup of tea.

Dorian waved her off. “It’s nothing. Glad I could help. But don’t ever ask me to move you again, twice in one week was a terrible idea. My back still hurts.”

She sighed. “I know, I’m sorry. But I couldn’t stay.”

Her sister, Karris, sat down next to her. “Why not?”

Amallia shrugged. “That building was a disaster. The lift was broken and my door was stuck all the time. And apparently, none of those things would ever get fixed.” She took a sip of her tea, still too hot to drink.

Karris gave her a sideways glance. “Why?” She was eating a small plate of pasta that Dorian had warmed for her.

“Uh …” Amallia stammered. “I don’t know, someone in the building mentioned it.”

Dorian returned from the kitchen and handed her a plate of pasta. “Someone just randomly said the lift would never get fixed?”

Amallia shrugged. “Yeah, something like that.”

Dorian threw a glance at Karris who returned the look. “What aren’t you telling us?”

She looked up from her plate with a fork-full of pasta hanging from her mouth. “Noffing, I fwear,” she mumbled through her food.

Karris knew she was lying. “Bullshit. What happened? Did someone hurt you? Do I need to kick their ass?”

Amallia rolled her eyes as she finished chewing. “No, I’m fine. Alright, this is … ugh, it’s fucking embarrassing is what it is.” She set her plate on the coffee table in front of her. “Don’t judge me okay, this is … not like me at all, and you know it.”

Dorian grinned. “You slept with someone.”

Amallia turned to him with a bug-eyed stare before sheepishly looking at her hands. “Maybe.”

“Mal,” Karris gave her a shove on the shoulder. “What the hell?! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was my neighbor! He was literally three paces across the hall. And it just happened! I didn’t plan on it,” she said gruffly as she folded her arms across her chest.

“When did that happen?”

Amallia thought for a second. “About four days after I moved in. It was the day I came to get my last box at your place, Karris. He helped me in the front door.”

Dorian grinned. “Ah, so he’s a chivalrous dunce, then,” he bantered.

Amallia scowled at him. “He is  _not_  a dunce. He was … criminally nice. Kind. Intelligent,” she described.

“And?” Dorian prodded.

“What do you want me to say?!” she shouted. “Fine, he was hot as hell, and I fucked his brains out.”

Karris squealed with laughter as Dorian rolled his eyes at her. “Well that was unnecessary, I just wanted to know if he was attractive.”

“Dorian, he was attractive in every way. And the … ugh, I’ll just explain what happened,” she scoffed as she dove into the events, stepping them through the evening she met Cullen and sparing only the details of their tryst in her bed.

Karris was enthralled by the story. “Aw, he sounds so sweet!”

“He sounds boring!” Dorian joked. “Does he have any friends?” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“I don’t know, Dorian. And I’m afraid I never will. You two helped me move out the next day. I didn’t even say good bye to his face. I couldn’t, I would have been a mess and I didn’t want to be there to watch his heart break.”

“Well that was awfully selfish of you,” Karris interjected.

“I know, I’m terrible,” Amallia said into the palms of her hands.

“You know, you could very easily find him again,” Dorian suggested.

Amallia shook her head in vehement disagreement. “No. I’m not … I can’t. And he wouldn’t want me back after what I did.”

Dorian sighed. “I think you under estimate the effect you have on people, Mal. If he is as clichéd as he sounds, I imagine he is worried to death about you.”

“He is not … okay, fine, he is kind of a cliché. It doesn’t matter, it’s done. He deserves better,” she muttered.

Karris, ever the pragmatic type, scoffed. “That is entirely untrue, and you know it. You really should just talk to him. Apologize.”

“I know. But I’m not ready,” Amallia sighed.

“You will be,” her sister encouraged her with a rub of her shoulder. She left the couch to put her empty plate to the kitchen. When she returned she said, “Unfortunately, I have to get home, my jerk boyfriend most likely didn’t feed the cat again. See you tomorrow?”

Amallia nodded. “I’ll be back here around five. If there’s anything good that  _has_ come out of this, it’s all the angst. Ugh, I could write music forever with these raging emotions.”

Dorian and Karris laughed with her at that. But it was true. Amallia had felt the worst she had in a very long time. And for whatever reason, new ideas seemed to pour out of her when she felt like that.

Karris left for her place while Dorian cleaned up their dinner plates. They talked for a few hours, and then Amallia’s eyes drooped with exhaustion. Dorian made for his own bed while she curled up with her blankets and pillows on the couch, drifting in and out of a nightmare of sleep.


	12. Brass Ensemble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something Amallia left out about her hobbies; principal baritone for the well known brass group, The Calenhad Players.

Months slipped by. Cullen’s grip on reality waned as depression threatened to consume him. He had not anticipated the sting of Amallia’s abandonment to last so long, but it had. And he was not improving. Frequent bouts of withdrawal kept him away from work far too often, but even when he was in the office, he was ineffectual at best, detrimental at worst.

Raleigh was of no help, insisting he move on. Barris and Krem understood to a point, but when winter had settled in, they’d given up on him. Losing the few friends he had felt as bad as losing Amallia, regardless that he had only known her for a few short hours.

A part of him felt as though she had never really left. He constantly saw her out of the corner of his eye; a swathe of freckled skin, a lock of purple hair, or a flash of bright blue eyes. At the store, the gym, the park, the theater, he caught glimpses of her even though he knew she wasn’t there. He thought he saw her once at the pet store as he was contemplating on a Mabari puppy, but he didn’t recall her mentioning a pet the night they’d met.

One particularly awful bought of nerves sent him to his therapist in the middle of the day late in December. Their regular calming techniques failed to relax him, and his therapist attempted several new methods. None worked. He sat on the couch, rocking back and forth on the verge of tears again when he mentioned Amallia for the first time.

His therapist said nothing, letting Cullen ramble on at length about this amazing woman and how he had met her and lost her all in the same evening. Whenever Cullen asked a question, his therapist tried to prompt him to answer it on his own. As frustrating as the exercise was, it allowed Cullen to reconcile his behavior with himself instead of continuing to blame himself when he had done nothing wrong.

As he left his therapist’s office an hour later, the man handed him a pamphlet suggesting he attend the event described inside. Cullen looked at the front of the pamphlet to find that a small brass ensemble was performing at a hotel in downtown for a Christmas benefit dinner. He shoved the pamphlet in his pocket with no intention of attending.

When Cullen walked out of the building, he turned down the block for his apartment. He thought of nothing. Numb depression had replaced his body-wracking anxiety. Snow covered sidewalks made for dangerous terrain and he nearly fell as another pedestrian shouldered into him.

“Hey!” Cullen shouted.

The other man was walking brusquely, a large black case on his back over one shoulder. He shouted an apology over his other shoulder without slowing.

Something on the ground caught his eye, dark in contrast to the grey snow. He looked down to find the pamphlet his therapist had given him, unfurling from its crumpled folds. He bent down and snatched it up, opening the flap to read about the benefit.

Her face stared back at his. Stunned, he thought he had simply imagined her, willed her face into existence where his subconscious wanted to see her. He screwed his eyes shutting, rubbing them with one hand, and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, her picture sat on the inside flap of the pamphlet as clear as day.

_Amallia Trevelyan, principle baritone for the Calenhad Players Brass Ensemble, joined the group five years ago simply to perform. With her intricate knowledge of composition, she took on the position of Arrangement Officer within her first year and breathed new life into their repertoire._

Each member of the ensemble was listed with a small picture and a brief description of their parts in the group. Cullen dug his phone from his pocket to check the time, realizing he had half an hour to make it to the hotel. Throwing caution to the wind, he ran.

* * *

 

The ensemble was warming up when he arrived. Hastily, he shoved the sales person a fifty dollar bill, telling him to keep the rest as a donation. The man attempted to write a receipt, but Cullen ignored him and entered the hall.

The ceiling soared high above and the space seemed to stretch on forever. People dressed in suits and tuxes, gowns and frocks, mingled about as waiters and waitresses bobbed between them. Cullen felt out of place even in his slacks, button-up, and tie.

Random sounds of bright brass instruments echoed from the opposite side of the hall. A waiter approached him, blocking his path to the raised platform ahead. He snatched a champaign flute and side stepped the young man, hell bent on getting a seat near the front.

As he maneuvered through the throng of people, some looked at him strangely. His bomber jacket and snow covered boots stood out compared to the neatly tailored suits and opulent dresses surrounding him. He paid them no mind, intent on his target.

More people clamored in front him, the crowd slowly rippling forward to take their seats for the performance. The wave of people jostled him to the side and he was forced to step out of the inexorable push, skirting around the outside of the throng.

As he neared the tables at the fore of the room, he caught a glimpse of the stage, a short platform raised half a foot from the floor. Two rows of chairs sat neatly arranged in an arch. Musicians dressed all in black holding small trumpets sat to the left in both rows. A young red-headed woman in the first chair in the front row on the end nearest him held her silver trumpet to her lips, her right foot bobbing nervously as she warmed up. The front row curved in where several more trumpets sat, giving way to three French horns.

He quickly discarded his excitement when the blonde man with the first baritone came into view, taking his seat next to the French horns. The crowd continued to press, filing between tables without rush. Another baritone came in to view, and then a third. The row continued to reveal man after man, cradling their silvery baritones in their laps as they warmed up.

Cullen’s heart dropped as the throng of people passed to reveal an empty chair at the end of the row. Larger brass instruments sat behind in the second row, primarily trombones and tubas, then curving back around to trumpets on the left end. Behind them, four men and women roamed back and forth in their black ensembles as they organized their percussion equipment.

When he finally reached a seat at a nearly full table, he was at the left end, unfortunately far from the stage and with an oddly angled view. As people settled, waiters and waitresses slipped through skillfully, assisting people with final drink orders.

Cullen’s eyes locked on the ensemble before him. He hoped the vacant chair at the end of the first row had a purpose. As the staff filtered away from the tables with orders in hand, an eerie silence filled the hall, patrons and supporters of the benefit prepared for the performance.

From the darkness at the right end of the stage, Cullen caught movement. A brief flicker of silvery brass, a flash of sparkle from the hem of a dress, the quickest glimpse of an exposed ankle, and then she was there. Amallia emerged from the shadows as though she were a part of them. She cradled her baritone in her right arm and a small stack of bound paper in her left as she took the stage. The crowd applauded with polite clapping.

Cullen could not believe his eyes. If he had thought her beautiful before, he did not know what to think of her now. Like a siren from a dream, her very presence called to him. Her hair was curled and twisted up artfully revealing the sweep of her pale neck and shoulders. A strapless dress, tightly wound around the bodice with a heart shaped neckline, hugged her figure down through her hips to flow freely to her feet. Black as ink, the shimmering fabric of the bodice was adorned with a swathe of tiny glittering crystals, as was the hem, in a swirling pattern to accent her shape.

The applause faded as she approached the conductor’s rise. She placed the stack of papers on the music stand and opened the top sheet to revel the score of the first piece. With a quick flick of her fingers, she flipped through the remaining pages, Cullen guessed to ensure the proper order.

When she took her seat, the conductor took the stage from the right and was welcomed with warm applause. The woman was petite, short and olive skinned, and she wore a tailored suit with a short jacket. She smiled brightly, nodding and silently thanking the audience as she approached the lone microphone behind the conductor’s rise. With the mic in hand, she waited patiently for the applause to fade.

“Thank you. I am Josephine Montilyet and I will be your conductor for the evening. The Calenhad Players are eternally honored for the opportunity to perform for you this evening. Tonight’s selection is an array of holiday pieces from around the world, arranged by our very own principal baritone, Amallia Trevelyan.”

Ms. Montilyet made a graceful, sweeping gesture to Amallia with a small bow and Amallia stood to take her own bow, baritone clutched across her chest. The audience clapped briefly as she returned to her seat.

“Now, without further delay, we bring to you  _Russian Christmas Music_.”

Cullen cursed his seat, damning the fact that he had not managed to sit closer to the center of the room. His hope was that she would see him and – that was as far as he had anticipated. Of course he would love nothing more than to see her happiness at his presence. But with that imaginative wish, worry crept up his spine to gnaw at the back of his neck. What if she would be upset, mad, or hurt that he was there, all but stalking her?

The thought was discarded as the ensemble began a beautifully haunting melody – to Cullen it was a decidedly un-holiday-like song. A percussionist rapped a mallet against the towering chimes, slowly repeating the same note as Ms. Montilyet conducted.

He dared not take his eyes from Amallia for a second lest she disappear again. The conductor’s arms swayed to the right, cuing the low brass. The silvery mouthpiece of Amallia’s baritone, poised upon her lips, hummed softly with her brethren. The low, undulating melody echoed darkly. Amallia’s eyes looked not at her stand but at her conductor, needing only her leader’s guidance to perform her part.

The bob of Amallia’s knee drew Cullen’s eyes downward. Beneath the hem of her dress, Cullen saw she wore no shoes. It was so endearing, he chuckled to himself. He had not seen her remove her shoes, though it was clear she had as they sat directly under her chair behind her feet. And no wonder, for when he spotted the heels she had been wearing, he was astonished she had been able to walk in them at all.

The trumpets and french horns joined, rounding out the solemn sounds of the piece. The small hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck stood on end as the group performed beautifully. The entire ensemble worked as a well-oiled machine, each musician adding their part to the whole. After a repeat of the original melody with everyone performing, the crescendo faded, and a second of silence consumed the hall.

Ms. Montilyet cued the trombones and they responded, sounding a second melody that countered the first, brighter and slightly faster. The high brass echoed, with the french horns and baritones supporting. Cullen watched, enthralled by the sounds and the images they induced.

The piece continued for several minutes, lulling into droning tones from the low brass, to bright flurries of passages from the trumpets. A culmination of melody and harmony, building, swelling, Cullen’s heart raced in response to the crescendo. Though the entire ensemble performed so well, he only had eyes for Amallia. Swelling chords, transforming between minor and major, dissonance resolving only to dip back into the spine-tingling minor chords brought tears to his eyes.

With a final crescendo, the conductor held the last chord, cuing the percussionists to chime their final strikes. She swept her free hand high above her stand, grasping with a fist and the swell ceased, echoing to the cavernous ceilings. The audience held their breath for a single second as the music faded, then broke into polite applause.

Cullen hardly clapped, stunned by the performance. How anyone around him could respond so coldly with praise that was wholly insufficient baffled him. He had little time to ponder his emotions, however; Ms. Montilyet had her baton raised in one hand, the other poised to begin the next piece.


	13. Giving Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen seeks her out post-performance.

Nearly an hour later, the ensemble completed their performance with a heart-warming arrangement of  _The Christmas Song_. Cullen knew the words; his heart soared as he listened to Amallia’s baritone echoing the melody with her fellow horn line. The piece ended to a swell of applause that was once again all too polite and demure for the performance he had witnessed.

The ensemble stood at the behest of their conductor, bowing and nodding in acknowledgement to those in the audience they knew. Amallia led them to the right of the stage where they filed away into the darkness from where she had come earlier.

Once again, she was gone. Panic gripped Cullen like a vice, threatening to crush the fragile reign he had on his anxiety. The music and drink had lulled him into a false sense of security, only to be ripped out from under him. Sweat broke out across his brow as he stood with the audience, most returning to their mingling, others leaving. A woman even approached him briefly to inquire who he was and who he was representing. He gave the woman his business card and, with the distraction, stepped past her easily.

He made his way towards the right end of the stage only to be blocked by a large group of patrons amassed by the stage door. His heart settled as a man in front of him spoke of the return of the ensemble and how he would very much like to meet the conductor.

One by one, musicians appeared through the door, seeking out loved ones and patrons alike. He waited patiently, weight shifting from one foot to the next as his anxiety bubbled beneath the surface. Nearly half the musicians had passed through the door before Amallia returned.

And yet, when he saw her, his call for her attention caught in his throat. In that moment’s hesitation, she was approached by a couple and immediately immersed in conversation. Cullen resolved to wait to speak with her, not wanting to look desperate, although he guessed his presence at the event at all may suggest such anyway.

Amallia flitted from group to group, the brightest smile constantly appearing with each new patron she spoke. It was difficult not to follow her too closely. The act sickened Cullen, feeling as though he were stalking her again. But the alternative – flat out approaching her in front of these people who respected her – was not an option to him.

Mid-conversation, her brow furrowed and she dug into her clutch purse. From it, she withdrew her phone, swiped the screen, and then placed it to her ear. A momentary discussion occurred – she nodded her heard several times, shaking it once – and then she hung up. With the phone returned, she apologized to her company, a hand over her heart. She turned on the heel of her foot and quickly made for the stage door.

Full-blown panic seized Cullen. He was losing her and he feared he would never find her again if he did not do something. His feet carried him forward in a rush, darting between the cloistered groups. Amallia slipped through the stage door before he made it half way across the hall.

The universe was working against him, he concluded. People that he swore had not been present earlier manifested in his path to the door only to block him. As he reached the door, he threw it wide, not caring who he might hit on the other side, and burst into the hallway beyond.

The stairs to the stage were to his left and a long, dimly lit hallway extended to his right. He ran down the hall, figuring Amallia had taken that route. Several doors lined the walls, most of which were empty dressing rooms. When he checked them all – including the janitor closet – without finding her, he bolted to the door at the end of the hall.

He burst into the freezing night air in the alley beyond. Yellow street lamps overhead cast odd shadows and he nearly missed the step down. He looked left, finding the empty alley, then to his right.

Amallia, baritone case in hand, was entering a cab at the end of the alley. He sprinted across the snow but time worked against him. She was closing the door to the cab and Cullen knew if he didn’t do something to get her attention now, he never would.

“Amallia!”

She froze, door inches from closing. A moment of hesitation passed and then her wide eyes appeared over the frame of the car to stare at him. The second past and she snapped the door shut. The driver pulled away not a moment later.

Cullen slid to a halt in the snow. As he had feared, his presence pushed her away, the worst possible result. He collapsed to his knees, breath ragged and gasping. Whether he was winded from running or from the absolute terror that squeezed at his chest, he was unsure. Tears flowed freely as he wept into his hands, lost once again.


	14. Lunch Cafe Escape Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia and Karris share lunch when an unexpected guest arrives.

“I saw him again,” Amallia stated.

Karris stopped chewing her lunch. “Cullen?”

Amallia nodded as she sipped from her water. “About a month ago. Before the holidays. He was at the benefit.”

Karris finished a bite of her sandwich. “And?”

Amallia sat silent for a minute, distracted by the driving beat of  _Immigrant Song_  thumping over the speakers of the cafe. “I didn’t know he was there until I left. You called me to meet you and Dorian for dinner. I called a cab. I … was so upset about it at the time I didn’t mention it when we met up.”

Her sister eyed her suspiciously. “Upset why?”

“Well, I hadn’t …” she paused with a sigh. “I hadn’t really planned on ever seeing him again,” she explained. “And he caught me in the alley getting in to my cab. I’d nearly shut the door when he … he …” She fell silent at the memory.

“Do I need to start my timer so I can bill you later?” Karris asked.

Amallia waved her off. “No, I just feel terrible. I shouldn’t have eaten dinner with him last fall. And then he’s just …  _there_. I hadn’t seen him since that first night and that was three months ago at the time. It … it hurts.”

Karris sighed. “Mal, why are you torturing yourself? I’m glad you’re not one of my patients, I get to ask you all the rude questions. Seriously, you clearly love the guy.”

Amallia continued eating. “I don’t know if that’s how I feel. Dale is still being a righteous asshole, I’m considering a restraining order. Work is fucking overwhelming right now, and even though I’m swamped, I’ve got no shortage of inspiration. I’ve completed three commercials, a t.v. show, and I’m collaborating on a movie with another woman who is a tritone genius.”

“So?”

Amallia stared at her sister, a flat grimace creasing her lips. “Kay, it’s not that simple. My life is seriously complicated right now. And I don’t want to jump right back into a relationship. It’s barely been a year since I left Dale. What if Cullen turns out to be just like him?”

“Cullen doesn’t sound like an egotistical musician,” Karris noted.

Amallia nodded. “I know. In the one night I spent with him, Cullen was far kinder to me than Dale had ever been.”

The cafe door opened behind Amallia with a tinkling bell. She watched Karri’s eyes as they followed the group that entered, then returned her stare to Amallia. “Anyway, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry. Subject changed. What movie are you working on?” Her eyes shifted away again towards the line of people, watching something, some _one,_ intently.

Amallia beamed at the chance to discuss her work. “This epic fantasy bit, something about dragons and magic. I think there’s a dimensional rift involved. I’m not too positive, we haven’t really had the chance to read the script and filming hasn’t quite finished yet. I haven’t seen any footage, but this other composer is going to mentor me while I do most of the work. She’s brilliant, her name is Mia. Uematsu was her mentor for a while. What in the Void are you staring at?”

Karris shook her head, attention returning to their conversation. “Sorry, this guy behind you in line keeps staring at either me or you, I can’t tell. I’ve never seen him before.”

Amallia shrugged. “People stare at my hair all the time.”

“Yeah, I dunno, Mal. He’s with a group of guys. He’s not looking now …” she trailed off as she peaked over Amallia’s shoulder once more.

As inconspicuously as she could, Amallia turned slowly, looking at other faces as she scanned the cafe. The line of people ordering their lunches extended nearly to the door. Halfway through, she spotted a familiar face. A fan of her cover band that she had met a few times stood with his arms folded, facing in her direction as he talked. _Krem?_

When she saw who he was talking to, she whipped her head back around. No. Why here? Why  _now?_ Panic overwhelmed her, sickening her to the pit of her stomach. “What are they doing?” she whispered.

Karris looked up again, frowned, and shook her head. “Nothing. Just standing there, talking. Waiting,” she explained.

“We have to go. Now,” Amallia demanded as she stood.

“Mal, what …” Karris started. “I’m not done.” She looked to her half-finished sandwich.

“Wrap it up and take it with you, we’ll eat as we walk. I need some air,” Amallia uttered as she slipped on her coat and wrapped up her food. “What are they doing now?”

Karris stood and put her coat on as well. She slipped the men a quick glance. “The one is staring at us again. He’s … wow, he’s  _really_ cute.”

“Shit, don’t look. Just … c’mon, let’s go,” Amallia hissed. She attempted to shuffle awkwardly towards the door while keeping her back to the line of customers.

“He’s still staring,” Karris mumbled right behind her sister.

Amallia kept her head turned to her right until she reached the door, pushing it open.

“Oh,  _now_ he’s moving,” Karris said as she followed Amallia through the door.

“Fuck,” Amallia spat. “Do something! I can’t … I just … please, do something?” Amallia pleaded as they pushed through the exterior door. The freezing January air only made it harder to breathe and Amallia gasped, fear seizing her throat.

Karris saw the panic-stricken look on her face and sighed. She turned back into the cafe as Amallia continued down the block.

* * *

 

“They’re leaving,” Krem muttered.

Cullen turned to find the brown haired woman and the other he swore was Amallia gathering their lunch and putting on their coats. When they made for the door, his feet moved on their own.

“Rutherford!” Raleigh hissed. “Let it go, man.”

Cullen ignored him. The two women were through the outer door as he pushed the inner door forward. He kept his focus on Amallia, nearly running into the woman she had been eating with.

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry!”

Had she turned back in simply to distract him? He gritted his teeth but managed a smile. “Sorry, excuse me,” he muttered as he made to side step the woman, but she was too quick and blocked his way through the door.

“Hey,” she started. “Do I know you? We’ve met before, right?”

Cullen’s stare could have bored holes through steel. When he looked up to the clear window of the cafe, he watched as Amallia flitted around the corner of the building, vanishing once more.

“Dammit,” he spat.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, am I in your way?” the woman said all too sweetly as she stepped aside.

Cullen returned his glare to her. “You were sitting with that woman with the purple hair.” He finally looked at the woman’s face, actually looked, taking in her features. “You’re … you’re her sister.”

The woman gaped, caught in her farce. “Purple hair?” she stalled. “Um, yes, I was just having lunch with her.” She folded her arms across her chest.

Cullen sighed, relief washing over him. “I’m Cullen,” he said as he held out his hand.

The woman gaped at him. As he had suspected, Amallia had told her sister of their night together last fall. She recovered quickly and grasped his hand. “Cullen. A pleasure. I’m Karris, and yes, Amallia is my sister.”

“Well met,” he said with a smile as he released her hand. “She hates me, doesn’t she?”

“Take a walk with me, Cullen?” Karris suggested with a quirk of her eyebrow.

He turned over his shoulder and waved to Krem, Barris, and Raleigh. They waved in response, Raleigh shaking his head with a roll of his eyes. When he turned back to Karris, he gestured to the door. “Lead the way.”

Karris pushed the door open before them and lead them down the block in the opposite direction that Amallia had gone. “I’m going to be very forward with you. Amallia is torn right now,” she started.

Cullen looked to the woman walking beside him. “Torn? About?”

“A great many things,” Karris responded. “Work, mostly. Performing. Private students. But you have managed to carve out a permanent space in both her mind and her heart. Amallia is incredibly passionate about her music so what you have accomplished is no small miracle.”

A shiver, not from the cold, crept up Cullen’s spine. The memory of Amallia’s voice flooded his mind and he knew Karris had not exaggerated her sister’s love for music. “I am sorry to hear she is so stressed.”

Karris waved off his concern. “It is not your fault. She is doing this to herself. Cullen, you seem like a wonderful person. Please do not think it is you who made a mistake or did anything wrong to her. She can be … incredibly bull-headed.”

The thought of a stubborn Amallia amused him. He laughed to himself. “That puts my mind at ease. Thank you, Karris.”

“You are welcome. Now, I have to head back to my office. Amallia works downtown in a production studio so don’t attempt  _stalking_  her there,” she quipped with a smirk. “Hopefully, she will come around soon.”

He nodded. “I should head back as well,” he said as he fished in his pocket for his business card. With a pen from his coat pocket, he scribbled his personal number on the back. “Give this to her? For when she’s ready? Or if she ever needs help or a friend.”

“Sure,” she took the card from him. “Hope your year improves, Cullen. I’m sorry to see it start so … unsure.”

“Thank you, Karris. Hopefully, I’ll see you soon,” he said as turned back for the cafe.

“Hopefully.”


	15. Wherein Nothing Happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Amallia, Karris, and Dorian hanging out.

“I swear to the gods, Mal, you fucking owe me,” Karris said in a huff as she collapsed on Dorian’s couch next to her sister.

Amallia groaned. “I do,” she muttered.

“Here,” Karris said as she shoved Cullen’s card into her hand. “He gave me that.”

Dorian came around the corner from the kitchen, fussing with a remote as he pointed it at the small black box beneath the television. “Now what did you do?”

“Nothing, Dorian,” Amallia said dismissively as she watched him flip through a long list of songs, settling for a little  _Blue Rondo a la Turk_.

“ _I_  met Mr. Rutherford today,” Karris mocked as she gave Amallia a light shove.

Dorian’s mischievous grin crept across his face as he set the remote down. “Oh. And was our dearest Amallia telling us the truth? Is he as boring as he sounds?”

Karris giggled to herself as she elbowed Amallia. “Dreadfully so. Kind, patient, and sickeningly cute.”

She regaled Dorian with their chance meeting earlier that afternoon at the cafe. Amallia buried her face in her hand with a groan, the other cradling a cup of tea.

“You make it sound like I caused a scene, Kay,” she said as she wiped her hand over her face.

Dorian sat between them as Karris continued. “You may as well have. Enough people were staring.”

“Thanks. That helps. A lot,” Amallia said, sarcasm dripping from each word.

“Well, then,” Dorian started. “You have yet to inform me if Mr. Rutherford has any friends.”

Amallia gaped at her cousin. “Excuse me, but aren’t you seeing someone now?”

“We went out for coffee. Once,” Dorian said pointedly.

Amallia gave her sister a sidelong glance before turning back to her cousin. “Alright, _Dorian_ , now it’s your turn. Talk.”

He scoffed with a roll of his eyes. “He was the perfect gentleman,” Dorian muttered. “I’m … seeing him again tonight.”

Karris nudged him with his elbow. “Well? Who is he?”

The pleading look Dorian gave Amallia set alarms to blaring in her head. “I’m so sorry, cousin, I know we made a rule about band mates …”

“Oh, Dorian, please don’t tell me you’ve fallen for Dale’s bullshit,” she groaned.

Hand to his chest, Dorian at least had the gall to look offended. “ _Dale?_  That wanker? Ugh, heavens no, I have far better taste than  _that_.”

While Amallia knew he hadn’t meant it as an insult on her personally, she couldn’t help but feel offended. After all, Amallia had been in serious relationship with Dale for nearly three years. Then again, Dorian was right. Dale  _was_  a wanker.

Karris squeaked from the other end of the couch. “You’re seeing Bull?!”

Oh, how obvious. How had she not realized it sooner? Dumfounded, Amallia stared at her cousin in his apoplectic shock. Not that she had a reason for it; there were three men in their band. If not Dale, that left Hissrad, their giant bassist who preferred the name The Iron Bull.

“Dorian, I trust your judgement, you know that,” Amallia started. “And I trust Bull’s as well. He has been with us since the start. If the two of you think it won’t cause a problem within the band, then go for it. Have fun.”

“Thank you, cousin,” Dorian drawled. “Although, I most likely would have never sought your blessing,” he continued with a chuckle. “Speaking of dates, Bull has a prior engagement the night of the food shelf benefit. Karris, you will accompany me?”

Karris held up her phone and a robotic “ _No.”_ chirped as she pushed a button. She giggled to herself as Dorian chastised her.

“Will you cut that out?” he snapped. “I refuse to go the benefit by myself.”

Amallia’s sister rolled her eyes. “Of course I’ll go. What about you, Mal? Mr. Theirin should be there,” she chimed with a wink.

The idea that Amallia was still smitten with a man she hadn’t seen in years rankled her. “Stop that,” she scoffed. “And, of course I’ll go. I’ll be surprised if the Players aren’t asked to perform,” she said with a flip of her hand.

“Oh wonderful,” Dorian said sarcastically, “more droning brass tubes.” This earned him a swat across the arm from his cousins, both of whom loved their brass instruments without reservation.

The thought occurred to Amallia that Karris had probably not played in years. “Kay, have you given any thought to playing again?”

A scrunch of her nose told Amallia that her sister wasn’t incredibly keen on the idea. “Not really. And you have plenty of trumpets. Not like you need another.”

With a shrug, Amallia didn’t press the issue further. “Alright, not a problem. The offer is on the table. You could play whatever you wanted, too, doesn’t have to be trumpet.”

Karris simply nodded her head in understanding.

“What about me?” Dorian asked feigning offense.

“Dorian, you play guitar,” Amallia stated flatly. “If we ever need a guitarist … well, no, you know I’d ask Cass first.”

He made a disgusted sound before muttering, “Typical.” He paused, pointing to the rack of movies next to his couch. “Got time for a movie?”

Karris stood with an irritated sigh. “Unfortunately, I do not. I have a journal article to finish,” she said as she grabbed up her coat and purse. “Stay out of trouble, Mal?”

“I’ll do my best.” As she turned to Dorian, she asked, ”What movie?”

“The  _only_  movie,” Dorian said as he grabbed  _Clue_  from the rack and headed for the television, Karris’ laugh echoing down the hallway as she left.


	16. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's security firm is tasked with the detail of Alistair Theirin and his wife, Amodisia, as they attend a charity performance by The Calenhad Players and Amallia is a confused mess. As always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with art!

As she had suspected, The Calenhad Players were requested to perform at the benefit for the food shelf. And Karris had been correct as well; the governor of Ferelden, Alistair Theirin, and his wife, Amodisia, were scheduled guests of honor. She knew of Amodisia’s philanthropic interests, but never thought the two of them would come to her city for such a small event.

Spring was well on its way as the snow melted and colorful birds appeared in her deck feeder. Amallia had moved out of Dorian’s apartment and into her own, eager to have her own space again. Two months of searching and negotiations led her to settle a block down the street from her studio. The convenient proximity to her work, as well as rehearsals with the ensemble and her cover band was a chance she could not pass up.

Rehearsals for the benefit took up most of her time, as did private students and score composition for the epic fantasy movie that was near to completion. By the night of the benefit, she was at wits end with her packed schedule, ready for the time off that would follow.

Amallia stared out across the small hall as she arranged chairs on the raised platform at the head of the dining hall. It was much smaller than the banquet hall in the hotel last December, but this benefit was much smaller as well. The size of the event only added to her confusion. Why had Governor Theirin and his wife decided to come? She resigned to never knowing the answer.

Security was at an astronomical level for such a small event. Amallia had attended many benefits in the five years she had been performing with the Players; nothing compared to this. Men in suits with ear pieces crawled everywhere, constantly scanning every inch of the hall for trouble.

Karris and Dorian were near the back of the hall watching Amallia arrange the makeshift stage. A brief wave, returned as quickly. Something caught Dorian’s attention and he traipsed off, leaving Karris alone. She saw her sister smile when Karris where he was headed. The bar was three people deep and it would take some time before anyone would be able to get a drink.

With the chairs in place, Amallia arranged the percussion equipment behind the second row, packed neatly in the small space. From the rear of the platform, the lighting on the stage was darker; she could easily pick out the faces as she scanned the room, patrons and philanthropists alike filling the hall. Scattered throughout the attendees were the security personnel, all dressed in varied suits, white shirt, and a thin, matching tie.

From high above, prelude music drifted down from the speakers. A smile, bidden by the distant memory of the first time she had seen  _Turandot_ , spread across her lips. She hummed the tenor melody of  _Nessun Dorma_ to herself as she resumed her task, flitting from one end of the stage to the other. She moved in time with the music, rolling, pushing, and spinning with the instruments as she worked.

The last swell of a crescendo, a rallentando as the piece approached the final, sustained notes and Amallia chanced a look across the growing throng. The door to the hall swung wide as the tenor’s vibrato sustained a voluble pitch in anticipation, lingering to push the listener to the edge of their seat. As if on cue, Cullen entered the hall through the open door as the tenor resolved, bellowing the final pitch to thunderous percussion, swirling strings, and furious horns.

It should have been a rewarding resolution –  _deceiving temporary tonic of D, finally returning to G major_  – but for Amallia, a tingling sense of dread crept up her spine. At least in the recesses of the stage Cullen would not be able to see her. But, why? Why had he come? She assumed he knew the brass ensemble had been billed for the occasion. His eyes scanned the room cautiously. A quick sweep from left to right, then back once more, he seemed satisfied.

Nerves were a regular part of performing for Amallia. She knew many musicians that would never considered balking at a performance. And then she knew others that sickened at the thought of being on stage. Her experience, she felt, was somewhere in the middle. But, now? With Cullen there, dressed so in his suit and she in her dress? Her nerves were amplified twice over, hands shaking and clammy, head dizzy. _These_ nerves were unlike any she had felt before.

She gripped the edges of the snare drum in front of her, wrists planted on the metal rail. Deep breaths did little for her state of panic. The urge to flee, to run, was overturned by her responsibility to the ensemble and the patrons that had attended specifically to see them perform.

Maker damn everything, she had been so oblivious. Karris had given her Cullen’s business card not two months prior. How had she missed the connection? He had even told her that he was their COO. Why was he in the field? Did he recognize the ensemble, determine that she would be at the event and come up with an excuse to be on sight?

The thought of a stuttering, stammering Cullen as he conjured up a reason for his presence at the benefit calmed her. A smile curved the corners of her lips and she laughed to herself softly. She had too few seconds to continue the imagination; Governor Theirin and his wife, Amodisia, entered the hall to tumultuous applause.

Cursing, she darted for the stage steps, heels striking the wooden platform with sharp  _clicks_. She had intended to meet Alistair and Amodisia as they entered the hall and show them to their seats with the operators of the food shelf. The crowded floor slowed her progress, as did the length of her inky, black dress and ridiculous heels.

An elbow. An arm. A foot beneath hers. Try as she might, the gathered mass would not part. Another elbow in her arm. A patron backed into her shoulder roughly, jostling her sideways as the hem of her dress was pinned to the floor by another guest’s foot. Knees and hands reaching, the carpet raced up to meet her.

Sure, strong arms caught her before she had fallen an inch. She stared at black oxfords and grey suit pants. The callused hand at her back was all too familiar on the bare expanse of her skin as his other hand grasped hers. Her left hand gripped his upper arm, feeling the ripple of his muscles as he held her. She dragged her eyes up as she straightened, drinking in his trim waist framed by a grey suit jacket; broad shoulders that swept away from a neck bound by a dark purple tie; the stubble of his chin and the scar on his upper lip; and his fiery amber eyes, locked on hers blown wide.

The surrounding attendees had fallen silent and backed away in a small circle. For Amallia, they may as well have ceased to exist. The entire  _world_ could have fade away and she wouldn’t have noticed. For that one, lingering second Cullen was everything.

“Are you alright, miss?”

The low, near-whisper of his voice sparked a flame in the pit of her stomach. A desire for him she thought long buried scorched a path through her veins, blood roiling with need and shooting straight between her legs. She squeezed her thighs to east the ache, so slight a motion, but he saw it. His hands shook as he released her reluctantly, licking his lips to speak again when she had yet to respond.

“Mal?” he whispered so only she could hear him.

“I’m fine, I just–”

“What’s the problem here?” a familiar voice quipped.

Amallia pried her eyes away from Cullen to the man and woman stepping through the crowd of people behind him.

Maker’s breath, how had Alistair Theirin become  _more_ attractive since she had last seen him? He stopped, shoulder to shoulder with Cullen, both in their finely tailored suits, perfectly styled hair, and ridiculously handsome smiles; she silently thanked the gods that Alistair had married Amodisia, the woman who stood beside him in a beautiful red gown.

The attendees surrounding them dispersed, returning to their conversations. Alistair clapped Cullen on the shoulder and gave the man a shake.

“Rutherford! Are you accosting our principal baritone?” he mocked.

Cullen’s face was a study in embarrassment. Pink crept up his neck to his ears as he gaped like a fish, trying to find an explanation. Instead, he only managed a question.

“Do you know Ms. Trevelyan, Governor?”

Alistair glared a disgusted look at Cullen. “Don’t call me that. Please. I don’t need my friends doing it, too.”

It was Amallia’s turn to gape. Cullen and Alistair were some sort of friends.  _Small world_  …

“Question still stands, Alistair,” Cullen said, finally smiling as he regained his composure.

Amallia interjected, hoping to prevent Alistair from revealing anything embarrassing. “We went to college together. Sort of. Just shared a few gen-ed classes. Sia, too.”

“Mal, you make it sound like we hardly knew each other,” Alistair said in an all-too alluring voice. “It was … much  _more_  than sharing a few classes.”

Sensing the conversation slipping out of her control, a drastic idea came to mind. She flashed her brightest smile and quicker than lightning, slipped under Cullen’s yet outstretched arm. "For shame, Alistair, speaking as though your wife were not present.”

She felt Cullen’s entire body tense at the sudden press of hers, but his arm wrapped around her shoulders as though it belonged there. Amodisia’s laughter at her joke rang out and several guests looked to her, wondering.

“Mal, my dear, we’ve missed you so,” the other woman said as she took Amallia’s hand and pulled her from Cullen into a hug. Amallia embraced her friend tightly, the feeling mutual. She missed Alistair and Amodisia, but it had been so many years since they’d last spent time together. And since Alistair had become governor, the two had little time for much of anything besides politics.

“I hate to do this,” Amodisia started as she separated from Amallia. “But we must continue on. Show us to our seats, love?”

“Absolutely,” Amallia chimed. Alistair left Cullen with a handshake and a gleaming smile, promising to find him later. As the couple passed her, she turned to Cullen. His exasperated face begged for answers and all she could do was mouth a silent apology before the Theirins pulled her away.


	17. Patrols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia escapes once again.

An hour later, Cullen had crossed the hall countless times as the Calenhad Players performed an array of pieces –  _Vesuvius, Shenandoah, Second Suite in F, The Liberty Bell March,_ and  _The March of Ostagar_ , among many others that he recognized and enjoyed. The ensemble’s performance was praised much more enthusiastically this time, Cullen noted. Within a minute of the finale, people quickly returned to mingling, making donations and enjoying their evening together with like-minded philanthropists.

Since his chance encounter with Amallia, Cullen found himself distracted. Several questions repeated in his head, reverberating off the nerves that had set in the moment he had caught her. He had suspected she would present since the Calenhad Players were performing, but not in a million years would he have anticipated being in the right place at the right time to catch her as she tripped.

It took much of his focus to force himself to do his job. He had volunteered to not only take on the contract but to be on sight to protect the governor personally. They had become friends late in college, meeting in their last year of undergrad. Strangely, he thought, Amodisia was already a permanent figure in Alistair’s life by that point. Neither of them had ever mentioned Amallia to him, not then or in the following years over which they’d drifted apart. It seems as though the same had happened between them and Amallia, although for different reasons.

The distinctly nagging feeling that Amallia and Alistair had been involved at one point itched at the back of his brain. And the fact that it bothered him angered him further. Amallia was perfectly allowed to be with whoever she wanted, why would that upset him in the least? It shouldn’t, he concluded, and put the thought aside.

Cullen exited the hall to canvas the lobby knowing he would not have a chance to speak with Amallia until later. Others of his team stood at their posts, eyes sharp and minds focused. When he determined everything was in order, he headed down the steps to the lower, smaller banquet rooms to find them empty. He checked further rooms and spaces, meeting his stationary team members as he went. Reports turned up nothing, as expected.

He ascended the steps to the lobby to return to the hall. Too late, he looked to the makeshift stage to see it nearly torn down. The chairs and percussion equipment were nowhere to be seen, and most performers appeared to have left in the interim, only a few remaining to take care of the platform. Maker damn patrols. He could not possibly have missed her again.

“Krem, you around?” Cullen said aloud to seemingly no one.

A crackling pop echoed from his ear piece and he heard Krem’s voice. “I’m here, Rutherford. Go.”

“Have you spotted …” he paused, wondering how to address her. “Have you seen our principal baritone recently?”

A different voice came over the radio. “Rutherford, that principal trumpet’s got  _red_ hair. That’s like, almost the same as purple, and she’s still here. She’s by the bar.”

Cullen gritted his teeth. “Why don’t you go talk to her, Raleigh? Krem, report.”

Another crackle and Krem’s voice sounded in his ear. “I saw her with the governor at his table about five minutes ago. She’s not there anymore.”

Cullen spoke as he darted for the table. “Thanks Krem. We’ll be done here within the hour.”

As he approached the table, Cullen found Alistair and Amodisia in a heated conversation with other patrons, discussing the ensemble’s performance and music selection.

“I’m telling you,  _The March of Ostagar_ is far more complex than the sound, it’s not just a bunch of soldiers stomping their feet, the– Rutherford! Join us!” Alistair shouted.

Cullen looked to Amodisia as if to blame her for her husband’s drunk state. She held up her hands and shook her head before saying, “Don’t look at me, he’s only had a glass of wine, I think he’s just being silly.”

“That’s … entirely true. C'mon, Cullen, sit with us!” Alistair demanded.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. Still working,” Cullen said with a grimace. “I do need your help though.”

Alistair looked up to Cullen with a smile. “Anything, my friend.”

“You were just speaking to Amallia a few minutes ago, but I can’t seem to find her now. Any idea where she went?” Cullen asked.

Alistair looked nervously to Amodisia who frowned in response. She spoke instead, Alistair staring straight ahead at nothing.

“Amallia left. She said she was meeting friends and had to leave. We assumed she meant you,” Amodisia explained.

Cullen shifted nervously next to Alistair. “What do you mean? Why would you assume she meant me?”

Alistair laughed at that, returning to reality. “My wife is far more observant about these things than I, as we all know. But even I could tell. We thought the two of you were dating.”

Cullen scoffed at that. “Dating? Amallia and I? No, absolutely not, I just … she … I wanted …,” In truth, Cullen had no clue what he wanted except to simply  _be_  with Amallia. To be near her, next to her, feel her presence pressing in on his. That would be enough.

“Oh. I see,” Alistair started. “You’re just absurdly in love with her and she’s given you so many mixed signals, you’ve got no fucking clue what she wants.”

Cullen gaped. Without thinking, he responded. “That’s actually quite accurate.”

“Take my advice, Cullen,” Alistair said as he turned to face his friend. “Save yourself the trouble and let her go. I can tell you from experience, it’ll never work. I don’t know what that woman is looking for, but it is clearly not the same thing you want.”

Cullen shook his head, unable to believe Alistair’s words. “No. That’s not true. She’s … she’s not like that.”

Alistair shrugged. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. She’s just horrible at telling people how she really feels.”

“Alistair, don’t speak ill of Amallia, she is our friend. If it weren’t for her, we would not have met,” Amodisia reminded her husband.

“True,” he agreed. “She is an amazing person, Cullen. Maker knows the  _both_  of you deserve some happiness for once in your lives. For your sake and for hers, I hope the two of you can figure it out.”

"Me, too,” Cullen sighed. “Me, too.”


	18. Proximity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair brings Cullen a grave concern about his next public appearance.

Spring arrived in full force, all driving wind and rain with the last vestiges of sludgy snow finally melting away. Cullen sat in his office finalizing the details on the firm’s next contract; Governor Theirin and his wife had decided at the banquet two months prior that a public appearance would be a great opportunity to meet constituents and hear out their primary concerns.

A small set of speakers behind Cullen played  _Stanley Climbfall_ ; after he had met Amallia, he had bought every Lifehouse album available. Why, he could not be sure. At first, he regretted the impulsive buy, thinking the constant reminder of her a distraction at best, detrimental to his health at worst. But after listening to each album and finding his favorite songs, he quickly discarded the notion. If anything, the music helped.

Except, at that moment, the idea of Alistair in public – and in the open square where the diner resided – frightened Cullen a great deal. At least at the banquet, the small number of people attending due to the nature of the event made his job a little easier. But a public appearance, where  _anybody_ could show up, was a completely different and incredibly more difficult situation.

He was reviewing the documentation on the Theirins’ detail when beams of sunlight slanted across his desk. The momentary distraction pulled his eyes to the large windows of his tenth floor office where he found the first break in the clouds in days. A break. Maybe to clear his mind. He convinced himself of the idea and stood, rounding his desk to stand near the window.

The city below sprawled before him giving way to green fields and open highways only a few miles out. Several other towering buildings stood near his, through which the warming sun filtered. Most were office buildings with their smooth dark windows. But half a block north, Cullen had a clear view of an apartment building, seven floors. A penthouse loft at the top had a pool – still covered, given the time of year – ringed by several lounging chairs, an iron wrought table with matching chairs, and a grill built into stone. As he stared at the loft, the sliding glass door pulled aside and a woman emerged. At least, he thought it was a woman. The distance and glaring sun impaired his vision, so he couldn’t be sure.

He watched her move about, reorganizing and cleaning as she traipsed along, lingering to check the bird feeder at one edge. She moved with an odd rhythm, as though she were dancing, bobbing her head along as she cleaned. He shook his head as he turned away from the window in disgust. What was he doing? Spying? The poor woman had no privacy. Why had she decided on that unit?

As he returned to his desk, his phone beeped, startling him. Exasperated with himself, he answered. “ _Yes_?”

A woman’s voice came over the speaker. “Mr. Theirin is here to see you, sir. Should I send him up?”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you,” he replied. Within a minute, the elevator rang down the hall and Cullen left his office to meet his guest part way. Alistair emerged from the elevator, swiftly covering the distance between them.

“Cullen,” Alistair beamed as he greeted his friend with a firm handshake. “I’ve seen more of you in two months than I have in the last ten years.”

“The dark side of growing up,” Cullen noted sarcastically. “What brings you to my office?” He led the two of them through the door.

“Wanted to check in on things for tomorrow,” he said as he took a seat before Cullen’s desk.

Cullen returned to his chair, leaning back. “Anything you’d like to know in particular?”

Alistair shrugged. “Do you anticipate any issues?”

It took Cullen a second to realize Alistair was being serious. With a side-eyed glare, he asked, “Do you understand what a security firm does, Alistair? To anticipate is, essentially, our job.”

“Well, sure, but is there anything strange on your radar?” Alistair asked, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice.

When Cullen looked to the man again, he could see a distinct fear in his eyes. Years of training and experience kicked in; he saw every sign. Twitching fingers, racing pulse, dilated pupils, and repeated licking of the lips. Alistair’s knee bobbed furiously as he failed to sit still.

“Is there something you would like to tell me?”

Alistair sighed, defeated. “I was hoping you’d found this on your own. I assumed our phones at the hotel were tapped, but apparently they aren’t.”

“Out with it, Theirin,” Cullen demanded.

The other man’s eyes shifted, searching the room for the words to put to his concern. “We received a few phone calls last night. Late. The first two sounded like static. Not loud, nobody was on the other end.”

He paused there and Cullen motioned for him to continue. “Then we received a third call that, essentially, threatened us with our lives. And the lives of two others”

“Who?”

“You,” he began but failed to continue.

Cullen waited, but the other man said nothing. “And?!”

Alistair jumped in surprise at Cullen’s outburst. His response came out a whisper, barely audible. “Mal.”

 _Why? Why her?_ Cullen’s mind raced furiously, forcing one wrong reason after the next into the answer. Nothing made sense. The only plausible conclusion he could come to was that someone had seen or heard the conversation between the four of them at the banquet. But why would they threaten to kill her? Or him for that matter. To what end?

“Alistair, I am so sorry that this has happened. I’ll send a detail back to your hotel with you to set up line taps,” Cullen started. “I’m surprised your personal detail didn’t do that on their own.”

Alistair made a disgusted sound. “I wonder the same. Anything else you need?”

Cullen shook his head. “Not at this time. I’m going to revise your detail for tomorrow. The staff I send with you tonight will update you when I provide them with new documentation as soon as I’m finished.”

Alistair stood to leave, but paused, a thought on the tip of his tongue. “Are … will you … she should know, Cullen.”

His stomach turned over. “I want to tell her but I can’t. I have no way of contacting her.”

“You can’t call her?” Alistair asked, eyebrows angling in confusion.

“I don’t have her number. I don’t even have her email,” Cullen explained.

This only served to confuse Alistair further. “Are you not friends? What’s going on between you two?”

Cullen sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. “I have seen Amallia all of three times since we met in October last year. The first of which was completely coincidental; she had just moved into my apartment building, right across the hall. We …”

That night came flooding back to him in a rush. He didn’t speak for several seconds, only stared straight ahead, lips slightly parted as the entire evening replayed in his head in a flash. Pine and sea salt, white sheets, purple hair, and the feel of his skin on hers. He could feel his face blushing as the small hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up.  _Somewhere in Between_  shuffled on the speakers, shivering up his spine to couple with his memories of her.

“Are you alright?” Alistair asked quietly. “What happened?”

Cullen returned his attention to his friend with a shake of his head. “Sorry. That first night we met was not the most normal of ‘dates’, if you will. I helped her to her flat, she had a heavy box with her. I invited her over for dinner.”

“What?” Alistair raised a questioning eyebrow, unable to believe Cullen’s story.

“I know. Bold of me. I never thought she’d say yes. But she did. After we ate, she showed me some of her instruments,” he trailed off, memories inundating him. “She sang for me,” he mumbled.

“Ah, yes. Mal’s voice is something to behold,” Alistair said with a similarly wistful tone. “But what you are remembering is  _not_ her singing voice, I’m assuming.”

“Er,” Cullen hesitated but a grin hooked the right corner of his lips. “Let me put it this way. I learned  _precisely_ how amazing her voice is that night.”

“You lucky son of a bitch.”

“Hey, come on, that is not helping,” Cullen groaned. “I … I’m pretty sure I love this woman and, like I said, I’ve only seen her three times in my life. Not to mention our first meeting wasn’t exactly the most respectful of situations. At least, I feel as though I disrespected her greatly …”

Alistair grimaced. “I understand. I’m sorry. You’ll get to see her tomorrow at least. Sia invited her along as part of our staff, so you’ll be able to keep a close eye on her the entire time. And speaking of Sia, I should be going.”

He managed to maintain a straight face, but the knowledge of Amallia’s presence at the event the next morning sickened him further. He managed a nod as he followed Alistair out of the door. “I’ll send a few people out to you for the phones and extra security tonight. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Cullen. I am so glad we were able to hire your team for this. I’ll rest easier knowing you’ll be there. See you tomorrow.” Alistair turned and swiftly strode through the door and down the hall.


	19. Accuracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Amallia manage to speak for the first time in months.

Shafts of pale spring sunlight slanted through the blinds warming her bed until it was unbearably hot. With a huff, Amallia threw the covers away from her and headed for the bathroom to start the day off with a shower.

Within an hour, she was smartly dressed in coral heels and a teal dress with a matching coral shawl wrapped around her shoulders where her long, carefully coiffed curls tumbled. Alistair and Amodisia’s public event would be starting in less than half an hour and Sia had called her last night to inform her that a car would come to her apartment to pick her up. Amallia sensed in Sia’s voice that something had happened, but when she had pressed the issue, Sia told her they were simply being cautious.

Her phone rang – a song called  _Tristram_ from a favorite video game – informing her that the car was waiting for her. She gathered her clutch and large camera backpack, then took to the elevator where a light, lyricless version of  _The Girl from Ipanema_ played on the speakers. Through the door of the lobby she found a black Audi A7 parked outside. The driver – a surprisingly small woman with pale pink hair clad in a black suit – greeted her warmly, presenting her with identification and a hand shake.

“Ms. Lavellan, a pleasure to meet you,” Amallia said with a smile.

The driver took her hand in a solid grip, the other hand waving off Amallia’s politeness. “Please, Ashara is just fine. Let’s get you to the diner, shall we?”

Amallia nodded and entered the car through the door that Ashara held open for her. With her seated, Ashara shut the door, rounded the front of the car and returned to the driver seat. A push of a button brought the car roaring to life and they sped off for the diner within seconds.

By the time they arrived, the crowd surrounding the dinner was nearly five people deep. Side streets to the rear of the diner were blocked off, but with a flash of Ashara’s identification, they passed through easily.

Behind the diner, several more identical black cars were parked and four security personnel kept watch. Ashara showed them her badge once more and they noted her arrival on a tablet one of the men held. He started in on a series of questions for Amallia, entering everything she said into the tablet. As she answered, the rear door of the diner burst open.

Neither Alistair nor Amodisia had mentioned that Cullen would be part of their detail again, but Amallia had mildly suspected that would be the case. And yet, as he stepped into the sunlight, wearing a trim black suit, white shirt, and a thin black tie, her brain came to a screeching halt. Though it was a cool spring morning, her shawl was suddenly too warm and she let it fall from her bare shoulders.

Cullen scanned the parking lot from right to left, gaze coming to rest on her. His eyes widened and smile brightened – Maker’s breath,  _that_  smile – as he strode directly over to her. Frozen where she stood, she couldn’t help but stare, her lips slightly parted in awe as he took her hand. That simple touch set her heart racing, a scorching heat rushing through her veins.

“It’s fine, Cole. I know her,” he said to the young man, not taking his eyes away from hers.

“Sir, I need to take her picture. Can you wait until after to muss her makeup?” the young man asked.

Amallia squeaked in surprise at the bold statement, eyes quickly snapping to her feet but not before she saw pink creep up to Cullen’s ears. His glare flipped to the young man before he spoke. “Cole, what did I tell you about blurting things out before you think?” Cullen asked through gritted teeth.

“Sorry, sir, I assumed you were,” he paused, looking to Amallia. “Involved.”

An involuntary spasm of her fingers squeezed Cullen’s hand. His surprised stare returned to hers for a second. Too many questions bore into her through those eyes and a familiar ache consumed her, heat seeking out her core to burn brighter. It took all of her willpower to look away, turning back to Cole.

She swallowed thickly before asking, “You needed to take my picture?”

“Yes, miss. Stand here,” he motioned behind himself and turned to face her as she passed. He held the tablet up and with a soft  _click_ , he logged her picture away with the partially completed information.

“Thank you, Cole. Ashara, I want you in the car and ready to go on the spot,” Cullen directed.

Ashara nodded and head back to her car. Cole resumed his stance, scanning the parking lot and surrounding buildings as Cullen pulled Amallia away towards the door of the diner.

“Could you … er, I’d like to show you something. That is, if you don’t mind. Follow me?” he asked her, low and quiet. The baritone of his voice rippled through her, a rush of spine-tingling goosebumps breaking out across her arms and shoulders.

“Uh, I should meet with Sia and Alistair,” she started.

“Please?” he asked barely above a whisper. The slightest knit of his brow in hope and worry tipped her over the edge.

His earnest desire quirked the corner of her lips into a smirk. “Alright, lead the way,” she motioned as she shifted her camera backpack up on her shoulder.

He sighed as he smiled. “I promise, it’ll just be a minute,” he said as he took her into the rear of the diner. The door led to the kitchen which had been taken over by Cullen’s security team as a technology center. Laptops, routers, signal receivers, and cords littered every available surface, creating a whirring buzz of fans and electricity.

Amallia followed as Cullen led her to the nearest corner where a large duffle bag sat alone. He unzipped the main compartment and withdrew from it a single, white calla lily encased in a plastic tube.

He turned to her with it but stopped abruptly, frowning. “Why does this suddenly feel like such a terrible idea?”

She said nothing, not at first. The flower itself was gorgeous but the thought, the idea of Cullen’s immense worry over giving her something so simple nearly brought her to tears. With a quick shake of her head, she closed the distance between them and took the encased flower from him. “It’s lovely, Cullen. Thank you.”

“Good. I’m … I’m glad you like it,” he muttered as he stepped closer to her, fingers slipping into her palm. “Mal, can we –“

“Cullen, I really need to get set up,” she interrupted as she tucked the tube into an external sleeve of her camera backpack. “We … can we speak after? Please?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have kept you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s fine. I promise, we’ll talk later,” she assured him with a squeeze of her hand. “Show me to Amodisia and Alistair?”


	20. Marked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They vow to speak after Alistair's event, but those plans are laid to waste by the hands of a madman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with art by me!

Cullen nodded as he stepped past her lead them to the front of the diner. Through the next door, Amallia found herself behind the bar,  _She Caught the Katy_  playing on a small radio sitting at the nearest end. Cullen lifted a section of the bar and motioned her through, then ushered her to the table where Alistair and Amodisia sat in conversation, surrounded by security personnel. The booth on the other side of the adjacent wall stood empty, so she rounded the aisle and took up station there.

She froze in surprise as she felt Cullen settle into the booth next to her. The nearness of him set her heart racing again and his thigh touched hers. She couldn’t help but slide ever so slightly closer. Maker, he felt so … so  _right_ , so  _good_  next to her. She pinned her knees together, thighs flexing as she took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. That failed when Cullen leaned over and whispered to her.

“All settled?” The warmth of his hand met her thigh and she swore it should have burned away the fabric of her dress.

The softest moan passed through her lips, unable to maintain her composure. “Ah … yes,” she started. She turned her glare on him to find a mischievous grin hooking the right corner of his lips.

“I hate you,” she whispered, sarcasm oozing from each syllable. “I hope you know that.”

He hummed a laugh through his tight-lipped smile, leaning close to her ear. “I look forward to …  _talking_  later,” he whispered to her, breath hot on the shell of her ear, and a light squeeze of his fingertips on her thigh. As he slipped from the booth, Amallia pressed her forehead to the palm of her hand, breathing deeply.

She turned to her camera bag for a much needed distraction. From its depths, she fished the items she needed; two large DSLR bodies, three lenses, and a body strap rested on the table when Amodisia turned over the wall to speak with her.

“Glad you finally made it, we were going to start without you,” she whispered as she glanced at Cullen walking away from the booth.

“Sorry, I was …” she paused briefly. “Detained,” she finished as she hooked the camera bodies to the strap as well as the third lens to its own compartment.

Amodisia giggled to herself. “Not to worry. Will you be ready shortly?” she asked motioning to the camera equipment.

“Yes, you can start. Act as though I’m not here. Best if I take photos of the two of you interacting with constituents,” she explained as she exited her booth and draped the strap across her body. Amodisia turned to Alistair and informed them they were ready. Alistair finally saw Amallia and waved to her, then hailed the nearest security staff to begin allowing constituents in the diner.

Cullen had returned to the bar, ever watchful at his post. He leaned back against a stool, arms folded across his chest. As furtively as she could, she snapped a quick picture of him before he looked her way.

Too late he had heard the shutter of her camera  _flick_  and his head twitched a fraction to face her. _Delete that!_  He mouthed at her with a scowl.

She looked at the image on the display of the camera.

Pleased with the results, she shook her head at him, mouthing a quick  _Nope!_  She giggled to herself as he rolled his eyes. When she turned back to Alistair and Amodisia, their booth was occupied with an older couple. The rest of the diner was filling up and Amallia set to work.

After an hour, she had taken what felt like nearly a thousand pictures, constantly moving about the diner to get the best vantage point for a shot. Alistair talked to what must have been a hundred people from all walks of life, many having traveled from the outskirts of town or further to meet him.

With the visiting hour concluded, Alistair and Amodisia rose to venture outside for Alistair’s speech to those he had not met. Cullen and Amallia followed as she switched to her second camera sporting large telephoto lens.

Through the front of the diner, a large crowd met them with applause mingling with the ruckus anthem of  _We’re Not Gonna Take It_  – without a doubt chosen by Alistair – thumping away from hidden speakers. Alistair waved and Amodisia thanked the nearest visitors for attending. Security lined the crowd, keeping them a safe distance away from the governor, his wife, and his staff.

The raised platform was shallow but long, large enough for several people to stand abreast. Alistair took to the podium with his wife beside him on the right while Amallia took up a post as far to Alistair’s left as she could so the sun was to her back.

Cullen stood off to her right at the back of the platform no more than six feet away, hands grasped behind him as his eyes swept the audience and surrounding setting. His brow furrowed near to the point of anger. Alistair’s speech was obviously the most worrisome part of this event.

Shutter firing away, Amallia captured any moment she could. Alistair’s animated face gave her plenty with which to work. She panned to her left to photograph the constituents, taking several pictures there. She zoomed in to specific individuals then all the way out for the whole group.

As she pressed the shutter once more, a bright reflection at the edge of her viewfinder nearly blinded her. She hissed, jerking the camera away from her face. Cullen watched as she immediately brought the camera back to her right eye.

The flash had come from the topmost edge of the lens’ field of view. Far across the street, there was an open park, nothing remotely high enough to have caused the reflection. But beyond, there was a set of derelict high rises. She scanned the rooftops, left to right, finding nothing.

Cullen watched her intently, knowing she’d seen something. When she pulled the camera away from her face again, he waited for her next move. In the preview menu, she viewed the last image she had taken to find the flash in the far upper left corner, further to the east.

She turned to her left and held the camera to her eye once more, scanning lower rooftops. Several taller buildings framed a four-story boutique that appeared closed. At the top of the red, brick building, a dark shape shifted and sunlight glinted off of metal.

She zoomed in, turning the lens with a flick of her wrist. With a half-press of the shutter, the camera focused and she gasped loudly in realization as Cullen touched the back of her shoulder.

“Mal?”

She moved far too slowly, as though everything around her had warped ahead in time. Her camera dropped with a thump to her stomach as she shoved Cullen away with such force that he stumbled. In two leaping strides, she covered the distance to Alistair and dove. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, colliding with him as the explosive shot of a high-powered rifle rang out across the square.

Pain unlike any she had ever felt engulfed her left arm. Alistair crashed to the platform and knocked Amodisia aside to stumble to her knees. Amallia landed roughly atop him, rolling to her back as Alistair shifted beneath her.

Security personnel swarmed the platform to create a protective barrier around the governor and his party immediately. Those at the edges of the gathered crowd scattered, while others in the center had dropped to the ground for cover, the square consumed in chaos.

Her vision blurred as she stared up at the bright blue sky. Blood had splattered there somehow, dark red on a sea of blue. Her blood, she thought as her wide-eyed gaze settled on Alistair’s face. It was the blue of his shirt that was stained with her blood. From the edges of consciousness, Cullen pressed into view as Alistair backed away, pulled by the security team intent on getting him and Amodisia to safety. Terror clouded Cullen’s face as he frantically pressed any available fabric to her arm and lifted her up into his lap cradling her shoulders.

An urge to speak. Amallia opened her mouth, but hardly anything came out. “I … I’m … sorry.”

Through a fog and as though he were a mile away, she heard him speak to her, soft and low. “Mal, focus here,” he pleaded. “Keep your eyes open, focus on me.”

And yet all she wanted to do was let them close, let the cold take her away. Her hand had gone numb as her body slipped into shock. It was everything she could do just to maintain consciousness.

“You’re bleeding,” his voice echoed. “I’m going to wrap it. This is going to hurt,” he declared. With a lolling nod of her head, she understood as she felt Cullen drag a swathe of fabric he had torn from the backdrop of the platform under her arm. She howled in pain as he wrapped the wound, binding it tightly.

“An ambulance is on the way, Cullen,” she heard a man say from behind him.

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as her lids flitted closed. She heard him speak, the haze of pain nearly drowning him out. “Mal, keep your eyes open,” he demanded from afar. “Listen to me, you need to stay conscious.” She forced her eyes opened to see his strained face, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.

“Mal?” Cullen asked as he brushed her hair from her face. “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

She opened her mouth to speak, trying to focus on his face. “I’m … I’m cold,” she muttered, hissing at a new shock of pain as Cullen put pressure on the wound. “It hurts, but …” she paused with a grunting sigh, pain unbearable. “It feels numb, too. Like I can’t feel my hand. I’m … so tired.”

“No, don’t sleep,” he said. “Once we’re at the hospital and the doctor has had a chance to look at you, then you can rest.”

“What … what happened? Is Alistair okay?” she asked, attempting any conversation to maintain consciousness.

Cullen pulled her closer. “He’s fine, thanks to you,” he started. “Why did you do it? You could have told me.”

She shook her head as she grunted in disagreement. “No time,” she said. “He would have been shot. Is it bad? My arm?”

He eased the pressure on her arm to look at the cloth, only to immediately replace it. The blood soaking his leg beneath her indicated she was bleeding profusely.

“I won’t lie, Mal. It’s bad. You’re bleeding so much …” he tried to explain but cut off, voice caught in his throat. His lips pursed in a frown and his brow furrowed with fear. That hurt worse than the bullet wound. She had saved Alistair but to what cost?

She heard more fabric ripping away out of sight and Ashara came into view. “Here, Cullen. Get a tourniquet above that wound.”

He took the fabric from her and twisted it into a thick, taught cord, then wrapped it under Amallia’s arm to thread one end over her bicep above the wound. With the two ends together, he tied a square knot, then dug in his suit jacket for a pen. With the pen set atop the knot, he tied another.

“Mal, this is going … this will hurt far more,” he said.

She could only blink in response, head too heavy to move. When he torqued the pen in the fabric, fresh pain lanced through her arm and she screamed. Watery eyes stared up at him as she gritted her teeth, her right hand gripping his shirt in a fist. With a final twist, the tourniquet was secure and she watched as Cullen brought his wrist to his face, noting the time.

Sirens echoed nearby as time crashed into her, slowing down until everything returned to its normal pace. She was not sure how long she lay in Cullen’s lap. A cold numbness set in, her life fleeing from her like water cupped in her hands to be replaced by raw fear. Moments of darkness mingled with Cullen pleading for her to stay awake as the ambulance arrived.

Unfamiliar faces hovered over her head. Three people prodded at her, one lifting a lid to flash a light in her eye, and the other pressing at her unpainted fingernails. The third held her wrist slightly while staring at his watch.

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.

“Ma … Amallia,” she muttered, tongue heavy, lips numb.

The woman looked at the makeshift tourniquet, then spoke to Cullen. “Did you apply this?”

He nodded numbly.

“When?”

He glanced at his watch. “Eight minutes, twenty seven seconds ago.”

She nodded, then noted the information provided by the other EMTs. “Let’s get her moving now,” she commanded.

Several pairs of hands lifted her on to the readied stretcher at the edge of the platform. Shivering against the cold sheets, she seethed at being torn away from Cullen’s warmth. He drifted further away as the stretcher bounced across the lawn to the waiting ambulance.

And then he was there again, standing next to her as though he had never left. “Should I come with? She has no family here.”

With the stretcher collapsed, the EMTs rolled her into the back of the ambulance and climbed in behind her. The woman he addressed replied. “If you’re not family, you’ll have to meet us there, I’m sorry, sir.”

“But, she’s …”

“Sir, we have to go,” she said as she slammed the door and the ambulance pulled away.

He whipped around, finding Ashara beside him. “Get the car,” he demanded. Without question, she obeyed, running for the rear of the diner. Within seconds, the car whipped around the corner of the lot and Cullen jumped into the passenger seat. They away, intent on following the ambulance.


	21. Decided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen does a bunch of waiting in a hospital.

Crowded. At least fifteen people had stuffed themselves into the visitor’s room of the hospital ER. Police. Too many police. Too many questions and not enough answers. The surgeon had tasked Cullen with contacting Amallia’s family. How? The request had brought him to Alistair and Amodisia who had arrived at the hospital mere minutes after him, escorted by a far too large entourage of security.

The two of them sat at a table in the center of the room talking softly to one another. As Cullen approached, Amodisia looked up with a small smile. Alistair continued to stare at the table’s empty surface.

He pulled a chair away and sat roughly, exhausted. Swallowing thickly, he asked, “Do either of you have contact information for Amallia’s sister?”

Amodisia blinked at him for a moment, then looked to her bag. “Actually, I think I do. I’ll call her,” she said as she stood and walked for the door.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. When he looked over to Alistair, he saw the man was openly crying. Not sobbing, but tears flowed freely down his face. “Alistair?”

He looked to Cullen, surprised to find the other man across from him. “Sorry,” he said with a sniffle as he wiped at his face. “I don’t know … well, that’s not true, I absolutely know why I’m so upset. Amallia … Maker, damn that woman, she took a bullet for me. I didn’t think I meant that much to her.”

Cullen smiled briefly. “Alistair, I have a feeling that Amallia holds the very few people in her life very close to her.”

“I believe you are correct,” Alistair sniffled in agreement as Amodisia returned from her phone call.

“Karris will be here shortly, she’s on her way.”

He slumped back into his chair, defeat consuming him. Was it taunting him? The speakers overhead crackled through an entire song only to clear up as the soft strums of guitar from  _Broken_ drifted to his ears. Distracted. Anxious. He’d failed to protect the one person he cared for most, though he hardly knew her. How had more people not been shot? And Alistair? Amallia’s exit wound suggested that the bullet would be found somewhere in the vicinity of the podium, but that Alistair had not been struck by it as well was a small miracle.

As he pondered the possible suspects – a very short list of unlikely people – Amallia’s sister, Karris rushed through the doors of the ER, crying frantically. A man walked beside her, tall and olive skinned with dark hair closely cropped at the sides and long locks swept back atop his head. Karris held his hand in a deadly grip, knuckles white and shaking.

Cullen stood and approached them, his frown deepening as Karris sobbed openly. Recognition quickly replaced her sadness, shifting to outright anger when her bloodshot eyes spotted him in the visitor’s room. Steal. He would be steal for her, steal to rail against in her frustration.

“What happened?” Karris demanded.

Cullen grimaced as he thought of what to say. “I’m not sure, yet. But, I assume that someone attempted to kill Governor Theirin. Amallia saved his life. She tackled him and took the bullet in her left arm.”

“Her …” Karris stuttered, brow knitted in confusion. “Her arm?” A sniffle. “You mean to tell me that she was shot in the  _arm_  and we’re all freaking out like she’s dying!?”

“It is an odd wound, Karris,” Cullen explained. “I’d rather wait for the doctor to explain.”

“No, I want  _you_  to explain. She was with you. You were supposed to protect her!” Karris shouted as fists balled at her sides. Faces gathered in the visitor’s room turned to her to stare openly.

The tall, dark man wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Kay, it’s not his fault, he’s but one man,” he trailed off, confusion plain on his face. “Do you know him?”

“Yes,” she spat. “Dorian,  _this_  is Cullen Rutherford.”

Dorian’s eyebrows crept up to his hairline, clearly having been told of him before. “ _Oh_. You lied to me, Kay. He’s not boring at all …”

“Dorian, this is no time to joke!” Karris yelled again.

Dorian gave her an admonishing glare. “Kay, if you do not stop shouting, I would hate to see what hospital security will do to you,” Dorian soothed as he squeezed her shoulder.

“Sorry,” she groaned. “I need to sit down.” With that, she headed for the table where Amodisia and Alistair sat, greeting them.

Dorian turned to Cullen, a soft smile on his face. He was unsure of what to make of the man or why he was with Karris. “Dorian, then?”

The man gave a tilt of his head, approaching Cullen. “Yes, Dorian Pavus. I am their cousin,” he explained as he gestured toward Karris. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” He held out his hand expectantly.

 _Family. Good. She’ll need them._  Cullen gave him a tight-lipped smile as he took Dorian’s hand in a firm grip. “I wish it were under much different circumstances. I … Karris is right. I was supposed to protect Amallia. My team and I, personally, failed her.”

Dorian shook his head. “My dear man, please do not bear the burden of another’s actions. Someone else shot our dear Amallia. Not you. But, Maker help me, if you do not find the person who did this, I will, and I will kill them.”

Cullen had suspected he may like the man, smile creasing his lips further at the thought of Dorian pummeling a faceless assailant. “Dorian, rest assured, we will find the person that did this if we have not already. I have put my best men on the job and they will not stop until they are successful.”

“Good man. Amallia may be a fickle woman, but she is typically a good judge of character. Typically, I say, because she occasionally gets in with the wrong person. But that is rare and I can tell you’re not that sort. She’s just incredibly stubborn,” Dorian explained.

“So I’ve heard,” Cullen stated as he recalled Karris’ words earlier that year. As lighthearted as their conversation had become, his worry over Amallia returned two-fold, brow knit in frustration.

Dorian walked off to sit with his cousin, giving Cullen a comforting pat on the shoulder as he passed. “She’ll be okay.”

Cullen nodded, words too difficult to speak. The visitor’s room was suddenly too crowded, too warm. He felt cramped, like a caged animal. Hours ticked by as he paced the room, staring at nothing. The chairs were all too uncomfortable, the magazines drab, and the t.v. uninteresting.

After three hours of waiting, Cullen stood with a huff and stormed out of the room to pace the hallway. His feet carried him further to the lobby only to stop dead when he noticed that he was going to leave.

_Now I’m the one running away?_

His feelings for Amallia still baffled him. Over seven months ago, they had met purely by chance. And to this day, he had only spent a handful of interrupted hours with her. The thought frightened and thrilled him. No one he had met before – save for one person nearly a decade ago – had captivated him quite like Amallia had.

And yet he wanted to run, now. When she needed support the most, he wanted to leave. He stood still in the lobby, alone, midafternoon sun drifting in through the high windows. Something tugged at the edges of his memory, a pain long buried of love ruined by circumstance. Could it be that he felt the same thing happening again, here, with Amallia? Was he trying to avoid the same painful loss from his youth?

The urge to run, to hide, to avoid the hurt ebbed, slowly replaced by an undeniable need, an unreasonable ache for her. A deep, calming breath cleared his thoughts. He knew, had known all along, what he wanted. But his worrisome nature and overly cautious methods prevented him from having that. Now, with the choice before him, he decided.

He drew his phone from his pocket and dialed Ashara. She was parked in the lot outside, waiting diligently for instructions from her boss.

“Lavellan,” she answered.

“Do me a favor? Not work related,” he asked.

“Anything, Mr. Rutherford.”


	22. Time To Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen lays down an ultimatum.

Cullen returned to the visitor’s room half an hour later with Amallia’s camera bag on his shoulder. The flower he had given her earlier that day rested safely in the exterior sleeve, protected by the plastic tube. All of her camera equipment had been returned to the bag per his instructions to Ashara. As he suspected, not a single person had thought to investigate her camera.

He looked to Amallia’s sister as he entered; she was still seated with the Theirins and talking animatedly. He was about to open the camera bag, but the main door of the ER burst open to allow Amallia’s doctor to pass through. He approached Dorian and Karris, both of whom leapt from their chairs to hear his prognosis.

“Are you Amallia Trevelyan’s family?” the doctor addressed Dorian.

Karris spoke up from behind him. “I’m her sister. He is our cousin.”

“And you?” he asked Cullen, standing a few feet away.

“Er …” he stuttered. “I’m … not related. I was there when she was shot.”

The doctor raised a questioning eyebrow. “Did you perform the tourniquet?”

Cullen nodded in affirmation. “That I did. I have some combat medic training,” he stated.

Pleasantly surprised with Cullen’s response, the doctor praised him. “Well, then, a thank you is in order. You made my job a bit easier in that she was alive when she arrived. Without the tourniquet, she would have bled out.”

“Oh,” Cullen began, not sure of how to respond. “Well … ah, I’m guessing her prognosis is positive then?”

“Absolutely. She’s stable and the wound will heal. But recovery will be difficult. She’ll need physical therapy. There was extensive damage to the muscles and the brachial artery was hit, which was why she lost so much blood. And there’s nerve damage, some of which I was able to repair. But most of all, she’ll need time to heal.”

Karris’ jaw had dropped, eyes wide. “So … she’s okay? She’ll be okay?”

“Yes. She needed a blood transfusion. She’s just finishing that. You can go back and see her. Family only,” he clarified as he motioned towards the ER doors.

While Cullen understood the legality of the situation, he cursed the fact that he was not related to Amallia before noting how ridiculous the thought was. Still, he wished he could see her immediately. The last he had seen her, she had been in a state of half consciousness rolling into the back of an ambulance.

“We’ll see if they can let you in after us. I’m sure Alistair and Amodisia want to see her, too,” Karris assured him with a hand on his arm, all prior anger vanished. “And I’m sorry for blowing up earlier. Amallia and Dorian are the only family I have. Losing either of them would be … I’m not sure how I would handle it.”

“Thank you, Karris. I understand. I wish I were that close to my family. Or anybody really,” Cullen stated.

She smiled as she walked towards the double doors to the ER. “We won’t take long, I promise,” she said over her shoulder, following the doctor with Dorian in tow.

Cullen nodded as he sat down and tore open Amallia’s camera bag, withdrawing the large camera with its telephoto lens still attached. With a flip of the switch, the display screen lit up, displaying the floor in front of him.

He switched to preview mode hoping that Amallia had taken at least one picture of the shooter. The first image appeared impossibly close to the rooftop of a distant building of the square in which the diner was located. A man clad in black lying flat on a raised surface peered through the scope of a large rifle. Most of his face was obscured by the weapon.

He clicked back one image to find a second picture– taken prior to the first – zoomed out far enough that, while the man was clearly standing on the roof, his face was impossible to see and a brilliant, metallic reflection of the sun on his weapon destroyed most of the image. When he clicked back one more image, he found an admittedly attractive profile of Alistair’s face.

Further back through the images he searched, finding nothing until he arrived at the first image Amallia had taken that morning. He leaned against a stool at the diner bar, arms folded and looking off to his left towards the door. She had turned the camera for a portrait shot to capture him from head to toe, and the depth of field was spectacular. He was glad she hadn’t deleted it when he had demanded her to do so.

He browsed the menu of the camera until he found a way to transfer images wirelessly to his phone. With the connection set up, he ported over the two images of the shooter, then rethought the decision and transferred the image of himself as well. For safe keeping. At least, that’s what he told himself.

With the images on his phone, he shut off her camera and returned it to his bag. On his phone, he forwarded the images of the shooter to Ashara, instructing her to do whatever work she could to identify the man in the images. He then emailed Krem and his field team the images to assist their search. They had cleared the surrounding buildings finding nothing. But they had yet to investigate the closed boutique since they hadn’t known the shooter had been stationed there. Armed with new information, Krem assured him they would turn the place over thoroughly.

An hour had slipped past by the time Karris and Dorian returned. Alistair and Amodisia had sat quietly together, giving Cullen the much needed space he had desired while they waited. When Karris approached them first, Cullen gritted his teeth at the prospect of waiting any longer to speak with Amallia.

Alistair stood and approached Cullen, long strides swiftly covering the distance. He sat to his left and turned to his friend. “Would you like to see her?”

Cullen was slightly taken aback. “You know I do. But if she asked for the two of you, you should go first.”

Alistair shook his head. “She hasn’t asked for anyone. Karris just informed us that she was ready and asked I let you know. she has to leave soon. But, I assumed you would want a few minutes alone with her.”

His skin prickled at the mere thought of any time alone with her, regardless of her current state. “Please, Alistair? I won’t be long.”

His friend nodded, grinning mischievously. “Be nice.”

“Aren’t I always?” Cullen asked as he stood, hoisting her backpack on his shoulder. Alistair only rolled his eyes at him as he returned to his wife.

Karris approached Cullen as he headed for the door. “She’s just around the corner, third door on the right. And Cullen?”

He raised a questioning eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“Be patient. She’s had a long day,” she said as she and Dorian turned for the exit of hospital. Cullen nodded in response, not knowing what he could possibly say. He turned on his heel and nearly ran out of the room and down the hall, slowing at the double doors to the ER. He punched the button on the wall and both swung away from him, granting him passage.

He took a quick right down the next hall and counted the doors. A mixture of nerves and fear welled up from deep within the pit of his stomach. He breathed erratically, unable to maintain composure. As he approached the third door, he raised a fist and rapped his knuckles hard against the wood.

“Come in.” Her voice was barely audible through the door. As he pushed, he saw the foot of her bed bathed in sunlight. The afternoon sun blazed through her window, heating the room to an uncomfortable level.

Control slipped from him further and his breathing shallowed, rapidly pulling from his lungs. As he entered the room, her bed inched further into view until he stood at the foot of it, staring at her.

Her hair was tied up in a messy bun and her face had been cleaned of her blood. She looked surprisingly alert for having just endured several hours of surgery and a bullet to the arm. His fears fled when he saw the brightest smile part her lips into a toothy grin, blue eyes wide as she took him in.

He hefted her backpack into an empty chair. “I uh … thought you might want this.”

She laughed softly to herself. “Ever the gentleman.”

“I try,” he said with a shrug, but a smile worked its way across his lips he could not contain. “How are you feeling?”

It was her turn to shrug. “I’m alive. And I have you to thank for that. At least for keeping me alive long enough to get here.”

“I’ll remind you to thank Ashara later. It was her idea,” he admitted.

She laughed her lilting laugh as she gestured to her bed for him to sit. “How are you doing, Cullen?”

He eased onto the bed next to her and briefly touched the fingers of her right hand, pulling away as he second guessed his behavior. “I’m better now that I see you’re doing well enough.”

Her smile returned as she took his hand firmly in hers, grasping it tightly. “Good. I’m glad you’re here. We never had a chance to speak like I’d promised.”

Cullen scoffed. “Mal, I think that, given the situation, we could postpone any serious discussions we need to have. I don’t want to stress you out. You need to heal,” he explained.

“You’re too kind,” she said with a frown. “I owe you an explanation for my behavior lately.” Her gaze drifted to the window looking out over the open field bordering the hospital.

“You don’t,” Cullen muttered. “It’s not … not necessary. I want to start over.” His thumb rasped against the backs of her fingers, warming his hand in hers.

Amallia returned her stare to him, devoid of all the light that had been in her smile. “I can’t.”

And the fear returned, exponentially worse. He avoided her eyes, unable to comprehend why she continued to push away. “You can’t, or you won’t?”

She frowned, frustrated. “A combination of both, which is why I want to explain it to you, Cullen. But you do not seem to care,” she muttered.

Anger bubbled up in his chest, heat spreading across his shoulders and crawling up his neck to redden his face. “ _I_  don’t seem to care?” He stood suddenly, snatching his hand away from hers. “ _I_  stayed with you, held you in my arms while you died.  _I_ was there for you. And yet  _I_ don’t care?”

He could tell the words stung, that his anger was getting the best of him. She didn’t deserve his ire, least of all now in her condition. Tears welled in her eyes at his remarks. Her chest rose with a deep breath as she held them back.

“It pains me to do this, Cullen—“ she began but he interrupted.

“Then don’t.”

“I have to!” she choked on the words, and he couldn’t tell if she meant it, if she actually wanted things to continue as they had been since they had met, or if something else was forcing her hand.

He tried to speak but his thought lodged in his throat, frustration and sadness seizing him in a tight grip. With a sneering glare, he looked to the small radio on the shelf as  _Power of Love_  sounded through the tinny speakers. Of course her radio would mock him at that precise moment.

Her turned his stare on her, wanting nothing more than to lose himself in the depths of here blue gaze. “I cannot do this, Amallia. I … I care about you far too much to let us keeping going on like this. When you’ve had time to heal and you’ve figured out what you want from me, call me. Until then, please, I beg of you, do not seek me out. The burden is too great for me to bear.”

She pursed her lips in anger, scowl deepening the lines of her face. “Forgive me,” she pleaded as he backed away towards the door.

“There is nothing to forgive.” He turned on his heel and left.


	23. A Mabari and His Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia and Cullen are reunited by the help of her new Mabari puppy, Commander.

Weeks bled into months. By the start of summer, Cullen was stressed out like never before at the firm. Since the shooting at the governor’s event, public scrutiny of the firm skyrocketed to an unbearable level. And that their internal investigation had yet to find anything – disregarding Amallia’s near sacrifice to save Alistair – served only to exacerbate his anxiety.

Shafts of June sunlight slanted through the window of his office. He stared out of the giant window overlooking the city, wondering how Amallia was fairing as he glanced to the penthouse loft down the block. Stare unfocused, his mind ran wild with thoughts of her and how selfless she had been at the event. While Alistair was their mutual friend, he knew Alistair and Amallia were not as close as they had once been.

And then he recalled their last conversation at the hospital. Unbidden anxiety overwhelmed him, hands shaking and heart racing. He had hoped Amallia would understand his desire to speak with her only when she was healed, clear-headed. But she had taken it so personally; he knew that speaking then while she was gravely injured and filled with a myriad of pain relieving drugs would not be useful at all.

When the aches came on, the room sweltered. Molten, painful, blinding. The necessity to leave urged Cullen from his desk. He shut his computer down and stalked from his office to the elevator. Swift strides carried him through the lobby and out of the front doors to bask in the sunlight.

He walked aimlessly, letting his feet take him a few blocks away from the confines of his office. Cars filled the busy street and pedestrians navigated the city blocks, creating the unique cacophony of a large city. Before long, the entrance to the park loomed in front Cullen and he hesitated for only a second before entering.

He walked the paths of the park without any destination in mind, hoping to distract himself. As of late, the park seemed to be the only thing that could quell his anxiety. His therapist suggested medication at one point, but he refused. Trading one drug out for the other felt wrong to him.

After an hour of wandering the park, he took a seat on a bench in front of the small lake at the park’s center. The sun was setting over the far side, turning the lake into an orange pool that glinted as the breeze disturbed the surface. People passed him as they walked or ran by, some with dogs, others with strollers. He wondered if getting a dog would help take his mind off things, give him something to do. He also reminded himself he needed to start training again; he hadn’t been to the gym since he met Amallia and he knew the owner would be concerned with his absence.

As the sun hit the tree tops, he stood to leave when another runner came around the trees to his left. A Mabari puppy – easily pushing a hundred pounds – loped along beside her.

His heart stopped. A tightness in his chest nearly crippled him and his knees began to buckle under his weight. He watched the runner near him, purple pony tail streaming out behind her in the breeze.

Her gaze dragged to him, slowly pulling away from the lake and sunset. As their eyes met, her mouth dropped open and she plodded to a halt. She was a few hundred feet away from him yet and appeared completely dumbfounded.

Her Mabari pup had stopped with her obediently. He whined softly at her and tilted his head. With a chuff, he turned to look at Cullen and then, without warning, launched towards him at full speed.

Amallia had been wholly unprepared for her new Mabari to bolt. She screamed in shock and attempted to keep up with him while maintaining a hold on his leash.

“Commander, no! Stop!” she shouted. But he kept pulling her as he barked happily at Cullen. He stopped at his feet and sat down, tongue lolling out of his mouth. He looked up and gave Amallia a happy bark and then looked back at Cullen, giving him a soft whine and another tilt of the head.

Cullen knelt down to the huge dog and scratched his ears. “Aren’t  _you_ a smart boy,” he said in admiration. The Mabari thoroughly enjoyed the attention and nuzzled against Cullen’s scratches with soft groans. “Commander, hm? Is that your name?”

Commander barked loudly at him, excited to hear his name. Cullen continued scratching him until he rolled down onto his back and showed his belly. Cullen obliged, scratching with both hands.

When he looked up to Amallia he stopped abruptly. Her arms were folded across her chest with one hand covering her mouth. She was sobbing, shoulders shuddering. Cullen stood, not knowing what to do. He was afraid to touch her, worried that she would pull away from him and in his current state of mind, he would not be able to handle that rejection again.

He opened his mouth several times to say something but never did. Amallia continued to sob silently as she ripped her earbuds from her ears, revealing  _Your Love_  on her running playlist and the coincidence was not lost on him. What else was on that playlist? Did she really feel that way?

He assumed the shock of meeting so randomly yet again, after everything that had happened in the last months, caused her apparent sadness. And yet he couldn’t make himself move. Commander must have sensed Amallia’s distress for he began whining loudly at her and then at Cullen. When Cullen didn’t move, Commander head-butted him behind the knee towards her.

“You think so?” he asked the dog.

Commander barked loudly in agreement and nudged him again, harder. He was insistent on helping his owner and knew it would make her feel better.

“Mal?” he asked tentatively as he reached out with one hand.

She nodded, unable to speak.

He wrapped his arms around hers and pressed her close. She was shaking uncontrollably. As he pulled her to him, she sobbed into his chest, gripping his shirt. Commander laid down at their feet, tongue lolling out as he panted.

“Thanks,” Cullen said to the dog.

He heard Amallia laugh through a sniffle. He hugged her tighter, one hand rubbing her back as she mumbled something into his shirt that he didn’t understand.

“My shirt can’t translate that for me,” he whispered to her.

She laughed again as she pulled back, wiping at her face. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded. "As am I. I … feel awful for storming out of the hospital like I did,” he muttered.

She shook her head. “No, you have nothing to be sorry about. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have …” she faltered as she took a breath. “I have been ridiculously stupid. Part of me wishes I hadn’t accept your offer for dinner last year.”

It felt as though his stomach had been filled with a lead weight, plummeting with dread. “I see. Have you thought about … about what I asked of you?”

She looked away over the lake with a long, far-off stare. She was remembering something, something that troubled her deeply. "You’re all I think about lately,” she started, shaking her head. “I don’t know what to do. That’s why I haven’t called you since …” An absent-minded hand gripped her left bicep, thumb rasping over the dark scar on the inside of her arm.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he started. “I am willing to wait if you need more time.”

A strangled cry as she sighed rent from her unexpectedly. “No, I don’t want you to wait for me,” she breathed as she turned back to him. “You should live your life, meet someone special. Someone who is right for you, who can devote themselves to you. Someone worthy of you.”

Saddened by the pain in her voice, he began to tear up.

_Dammit, Rutherford, keep your shit together!_

“But,” he started, choking on his words. “I have met someone special. And they are worthy of me, I have no doubt about it.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I want to tell you … but I am afraid you will leave me if I do. That’s … why I won’t allow myself to commit to anything without your knowing first,” she explained as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clearly nervous.

"I understand. But, as selfish as this may seem,” he began “I do not want to be with you if you are uncomfortable with confiding in me that way,” he continued, exasperated. He ran a hand through his hair to rub the back of his neck before speaking again. "Mal, whatever it is in your past that is bothering you, that has you frightened of even the idea of being with me, I don’t care. That’s  _your_  past. You did nothing to me that can’t be forgiven. But I won’t be able to handle any of that without you. Know that whatever it is, you can tell me and I won’t run off.”

“I …” she started. Sadness and longing bore into him from her stare. “I have to go. I’m sorry.” Without another word, she walked away, dragging Commander behind her.


	24. Raleigh is a Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara provides Cullen with a lead and then Raleigh promptly ruins his day.

Cullen wasn’t even sure he had actually seen her that day or if he had just imagined it. He was afraid it had been a dream or that he had hallucinated in the grip of anxiety to placate himself. But he distinctly remembered the feel of her against his chest, wrapped in his arms and he knew it had been real.

He wished it wasn’t. He would have rather gone on not having seen her; now the ache worse than ever. Even weeks later, with the last echoes of summer fading out, it felt as though he had seen her not five minutes ago with her new Mabari puppy.

Ashara entered his office as he daydreamed, snapping him back to reality. She took a seat before his desk and set down a small thumb drive.

“You found something?” he asked, interest piqued.

“It’s a small lead, but better than nothing,” Ashara said with a small shrug.

Cullen snatched up the drive and connected it to his computer. A folder popped up on the screen containing several documents on a single individual. The more he read, the further his confusion deepened. None of it made sense, least of all the person involved. He turned to Ashara, unsure of what to do.

“This is impossible. This man … do you know who this is?” he asked.

With a grimace, she shook her head. “Nope. But I’ll keep digging,” she insisted. “I’ll find the guy, I promise.” As she spoke, Raleigh rounded the corner and entered. Ashara took this as her sign to leave and stood.

“We’ll need to discuss this later. If this is our guy, there’s a major issue,” Cullen said with a nod. “Thanks.”

“Will do, sir,” she saluted and left. AS she swiftly walked away, Raleigh leaned against the trim of the door to stare.

“You know, I could fire you for that,” Cullen admonished with a flat glare.

Raleigh rolled his eyes as he made a sound of dismissal. “Yeah, but you won’t.” He took a seat across from Cullen, glaring at him. “You still look like shit, mate.”

“Thanks, I had no idea,” he muttered into the papers scattered across his desk.

“You need to get out. Stop moping.”

Cullen scoffed at him. "I’m not moping, I’m fine, just leave me be.”

Raleigh was about to respond when the speakers behind Cullen shuffled to  _Take Me Away_. He listened a moment, face scrunching up in disgust. “Maker, Cullen, how do you function listening to  _that_?!”

He turned to the radio as if to scold it for outing him to his friend. “I happen to like it. Now, seriously, go. I’m busy.”

“No can do, my friend,” Raleigh replied. “Krem and Barris insist we all go out tonight to see this band. There’s only a five sovereign cover. At the worst, you’ll be out a piece. Don’t worry about drinks,” he explained.

“Raleigh, I’m up to my eyeballs in paperwork and I need to get it done now,” Cullen insisted as he looked at the clock on his computer.

“Oh c'mon, you can do that shit tomorrow!” Raleigh exclaimed.

“What?! No, tomorrow’s Saturday, absolutely not. I’ve got plans,” Cullen fabricated.

The look of exasperation on Raleigh’s face matched his incredulous tone. “Bullshit, you don’t do anything except mope around every weekend waiting for that woman to reappear.”

Cullen regretted ever having told his friends about Amallia but his therapist had insisted he confide in someone about it.  _Some friends …_

"I’m not waiting for her to reappear. I’m … avoiding her as best as I can,” he said with a grimace. “We just keep running into each other.”

"You’re hopeless. Look, we’re leaving in an hour, we’re going to this bar, and you’re going with us,” Raleigh demanded as he stood.

Cullen made a disgusted noise. “Fine. What’s this band about?”

“I don’t know, some local group, they just do covers. Krem suggested it,” he said with a wave of his hand.

Cullen thought a moment, something rankling the edges of his memory. With a resigned sigh, he agreed. “Alright, I’ll be ready in an hour.”

Raleigh stood, triumphant smile plastered to his face. “Good, because I’d drag you from your desk if you weren’t,” he chided as he left Cullen’s office.


	25. APOSTATES!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bar is called The Herald's Rest and Cullen has no desire to go once he realizes who will be performing.

After another forty-five minutes of work, Cullen resigned and left his office in a huff. With minimal work unfinished, he resolved to finish it on Saturday even though he hated the idea of working on the weekend.

Down in the lobby, Krem and Barris waited with Raleigh who had offered to drive them all. As they headed through the doors, the scorching late August sun blazed off to the west, casting tall shadows across the city block. Raleigh’s car sat in front of the building and Cullen opted for the back seat, allowing Krem to sit up front. Once merged into traffic, Raleigh rolled along slowly with the parade of cars that made up rush hour.

Stations flipped by on the radio as Raleigh continuously pushed buttons on the console, never happy with what he found. Traffic report, weather, talk show, sports. Preset 1. Preset 2. Preset 3. Cullen thought he may end up flipping through the radio the entire way to the bar until he settled on a station.  _Cherry Pie._ Raleigh nodded, appearing all too pleased with his find.

Krem turned from the front of the car to talk to Cullen and Barris. “This band is great, I’ve seen ‘em a few times,” he started. “They’ve got a pretty great sound, they should write their own music. I bet they’d sell albums.”

Raleigh turned the radio down. “What kind of music do they cover?”

Krem turned to the front. “Oh, mostly 70s and 80s rock. Some pop mixed in, but it’s all done in a sort of hard rock or metal style. Their shows are awesome, the chick on keytar is hot as hell,” he said with a laugh.

Cullen smiled at first, a small chuckle. Something itched at the edges of his memory as a wave of nausea washed over him. Gooseflesh broke out over his arms and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His mouth had gone dry and the world spun dizzyingly.

“Key—,” he choked, swallowing hard. “Keytar chick?”

“Yeah, they’ve got this woman that plays keyboard and does all their synth work. And she plays a keytar on some songs, sings backup,” Krem explained.

“Stop the car,” Cullen demanded.

“What, no, we’re nearly there,” Raleigh said as he pointed down the street.

Cullen shook his head. “No, seriously, let me out. I can’t go.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Rutherford?” Krem asked.

“Nuh-” he squeaked. “Nothing. I just … I’m not feeling well.”

“Whiskey, my friend. Whiskey solves everything. You just need a drink, mate,” Raleigh joked.

Seeing as there was no way he was getting out of the car unless he wanted to jump from a moving vehicle – the thought was still in the forefront of his mind – he resolved to hide in the back of the bar away from the stage. Maybe something else could go wrong that day that would prevent him from getting to the bar. A tornado. A flood. A plague of locusts. Anything. His hopes were dashed when they pulled up to the bar, parking in the back lot.

They entered to find the establishment nearly empty but the stage set was already set. They weren’t going on for a couple hours and given how early it was, most patrons were still at work. Cullen groaned as Krem, Barris, and Raleigh all made their way to a table directly in front of the stage.

He followed and sat in a chair on the far side of the table away from the stage thinking it would be the best spot. Once seated, he immediately regretted the decision noting that he would be in clear view of the stage.

“Barris, switch spots with me,” Cullen demanded.

“No, man, what the hell is wrong?” Barris asked.

Resigned to his seat, he shook his head. “Nothing, never mind.” He scanned the stage and something on the ceiling caught his eye. “I have a question, though.”

Raleigh tried to find what he was looking at, then looked back to him. “What is it, now?”

“Why is there chicken wire rolled up at the ceiling?” he asked as he gestured with a flip of his hand.

Krem only laughed and didn’t answer his question, much to Cullen’s ire.

They ate dinner there and ordered their first round of drinks as the bar began to fill up. The din of conversation, silverware on plates, and glasses on wooden tables picked up. Soon, the place was packed and, while Cullen hated that he was there, he started to wonder if the whole thing wasn’t a blessing in disguise.

An hour passed as more patrons filled in around them. Before long, the promoter for the show took the stage and the bar quieted some as he grabbed a mic and flipped it on. Over the amps, Cullen could hear a song creep in, noting the blasting horn line of  _Can’t Turn You Loose._ Behind the promoter, he could see the large drum set with its myriad of cymbals sparkling in the stage lights. Two guitars and a bass guitar were propped up in a single rack on stage right.

And Amallia’s three keyboards were there, as well as her keytar, pushed back near the drum set so that there was room on the stage for the guitarists and vocalist.

_At least she’ll be near the back. She might not even see me._

“We’d like to thank all you lovely, lovely people for joining us tonight. You know them and love them and you keep coming out to see them, so they keep coming back to give you more. Please give a very Fereldan welcome to the one, the only,  _APOSTATES!_ ”

The bar erupted into shouts and jeers as the song from the amps grew louder. Cullen figured that, with the turnout, Amallia’s band was quite well known in the area and it seemed to have a huge following. While still terrified at the prospect of seeing her, the desire to see her perform again won out. The sea of people crowding the floor and the lights flooding the stage may serve to bury him.

His hopes were crushed when the band members appeared through a rear curtain at the left end of the stage. Amallia was at the head of the line bobbing her head in time with the song. She took the mic from the promoter and waited. As part of her shtick, she dug out a watch from her front pocket, opened it and checked the time. With an approving frown, she snapped it shut and returned it to her pocket. The horns of the song blared over the amps, and she pumped her fist in the air in time, giving the last beat a punch high above her head. The patrons in the bar erupted with cheers.

She was wearing the most obnoxious outfit he had ever seen. Calf-high combat boots, black, torn fish-net stockings,  _very_ shortblack cut-off shorts, and a loose racerback tank-top. The top had an image of an undead man wearing a red coat with a dark hat on his back. He wielded a broken sabre in one hand and a tattered foreign flag in the other. Her hair was loosely curled and tumbled down her shoulders. Her wrists were wrapped by two thick leather bracelets and her makeup was perfect for the stage, done up enough so that the crowed could see it but not so much that she looked unlike herself.

Cullen stopped gawking when she addressed the bar.

“Thank you!” she shouted into the mic. “We’re so glad all of you could come out tonight!”

The patrons shouted and screamed in response.

Amallia pulled the mic back from her and sang out a  _yeah!_  the likes of which Cullen had never heard. It drove the bar wild and they screamed back their approval.

“Ah, I love you guys. This place is the best. You know, we don’t travel much, but when we do,” she thought a moment. “… I fucking hate it.”

The crowd laughed and shouted, cheering her on.

“See! You fuckers get it!” she said with a fist in the air. “You know what we’re all about and you appreciate it. That’s why we keep coming back even though we know you think we’re the biggest dorks in town.”

One of the two guitarists dragged his hand up and down the neck of his guitar before Cullen noticed it was Dorian holding the instrument. He stood next to a tall woman with short black hair who cradled her own guitar at her hip.

“Before we get started here,” she began as she brought her hand up to shield her eyes from the stage lights. When she looked down in front of her, Cullen’s stomach dropped.

“I see some new faces! Fresh meat!” she growled into the mic. Krem laughed and gave Raleigh him an enthusiastic shove. The bar jeered them as she pointed to their table. Cullen looked down and away, trying to hide his face, but Raleigh, Barris, and Krem were cheering her on, excited to have her attention.

“Let’s give our new friends a warm welcome, shall we?”


	26. Bang Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia, center-stage, and Cullen doesn't know whether to scream or hide.

Relieved that she hadn’t recognized him, Cullen chanced a look to see Amallia moving back a step from the edge of the stage. Her opening bit gave the band ample time to get into their positions. The drummer was adjusting her seat once more and the guitarists were lined up to either side of her, bass on her right, guitars to her left. The other vocalist took up a stance at her keyboards and gave her a thumbs up.

“Ready, boys?” she asked in a sultry voice as she eyed their table again.

The tall woman with the guitar started a riff that Cullen didn’t recognize. The drums kicked in after a few measures, and not another beat later, Amallia …

What she did wasn’t something Cullen could really consider singing, but she definitely was. It was more of a screaming or wailing, but far from displeasing. Quite the opposite, Cullen found it incredibly alluring as the lyrics flowed from her.

> _Hypnotize me_  
>  Mesmerize me  
>  Feel my willpower slip  
>  Light my fire  
>  With cold desire  
>  Losing all my grip

She was dancing as she sang, hips rocking side to side and her head flipping her hair around. It took all of his  _willpower_  not to gawk openly. He stared, enthralled by the way she moved and the style of singing was, while different, so entertaining. The song itself was suggestive enough, the lyrics causing a heat to rise up his neck.

> _Oooooh no, you’re so damn wicked_  
>  You’ve got me by the throat  
>  Ooooh no, you got your claws stuck in me  
>  You’ll never let me gooooo!  
>  I believe you’re the devil  
>  I believe you’re the devil’s child!

She wailed like a banshee on the word “go” and it sent a chill down his spine. He found himself bobbing his head along with the song, watching Krem, Barris, and Raleigh clap along and shout the lyrics. He thought then that he could at least enjoy himself as long as she didn’t see him.

After another verse, the chorus came back around and Cullen was pounding his fist on the table, keeping time with his heel on the floor. When the song finished, the crowd cheered wildly. She gave another echoing  _yeah!_ into the mic and then looked to his table again.

“Well, how was that? Settled in, now?” she asked in a breathless huff, squinting in the bright stage lights.

Raleigh, Barris, and Krem cheered as Cullen clapped awkwardly while he looked as far back as he could without falling over in his chair.

“Great, so, we’ve got a new one for you. And yes, I’m singing again. Dale has laryngitis, so … fuck Dale, I’m singing tonight,” she said with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

The bar cheered loudly at this. Krem had both fists in the air as he shouted his pleasure at this news and the others looked to Cullen excitedly as they clapped.  He wasn’t paying attention. The nastiest look was plastered on Dale’s face as he sulked behind the keyboards.

Amallia went to the back of the stage to retrieve her keytar. As she was reaching for it, he saw Dale exchange words with her, none of them very pleasant. She turned away while he was still talking, rolling her eyes and, with the strap thrown over her shoulder, made her way back to the front. She popped the mic back in its stand and adjusted its height.

“This is a song by a fantastic band, you should check them out. They’re called Sonata Arctica. That is, if you like some of that nerdy, sword swingin’ metal,” she said with a laugh.

Their following seemed to be an array of hard rock and metal lovers. Cullen was unfamiliar with the genres and felt out of his element surrounded by hardcore fans. They shouted their approval of the band she suggested.

“Alright, here we go, this is …” she paused for dramatic effect. “ _Fullmoon._ ” Many of the patrons in the bar cheered and whistled.

She began playing a slow, suspenseful melody on the keytar, undulating between chords. When she began to sing it was with a familiar passion he had witnessed first-hand all those months ago.

> _Sitting in a corner all alone_  
>  Staring from the bottom of his soul  
>  Watching the night come in through the window, window  
>  It’ll all collapse tonight!  
>  The full moon is here again!  
>  In sickness and in health

The guitars slammed a wicked chord and the drums blasted a single beat as she started the last line, then continued the marching pace of the intro verse of the song.

> _Understanding_  
>  So demanding  
>  It has no name  
>  There’s one for every season  
>  Makes him insane  
>  To knoooooooooow!

Her wailing voice was incredibly powerful and she let it ring as the drums and guitar took over, double-timing the tempo. A driving rock beat with double-bass blasts got the entire crowd stomping their feet and pumping their fists in the air.

She sang, and as far as Cullen could tell, the song was about a Maker damned werewolf. He laughed then, relaxing as he watched her in her element, soaking up the spot light and loving every minute of the performance. It was like the night he had met her so many months ago. Music poured out of her. She didn’t create it. It was as if she were the tap and the music was the water unleashed.

He lost himself in her performance, her voice ranging from thunderous lows to shrill highs and everything in between. Quite long, it lasted several minutes before ending to tumultuous applause.

As the cheering eased, she spoke in the mic. “Glad you enjoyed that one, it’s a favorite. Seriously, check out that band!”

“Mal, nobody gives a shit,” the lady guitarist said into her mic.

“Shut up, Cassandra, nobody likes you!” Amallia bantered back.

“I like me …” Cassandra said, feigning sadness and the crowd echoed her with a prolonged “Aw!” and a random, “We love you Cass!” Cassandra responded by puckering her lips, blowing a kiss to the crowd.

“Okay, everyone shut it, we’ve got way to much shit to play for you to keep dicking around between each song,” Amallia interrupted, grinning. “How about some classic rock?”

Two men leaped up on stage, one going to the back for Amallia’s giant keyboard, and the other setting up a stand in front of her. “We’ll get this shit organized one day, I promise.” More laughter from the patrons in the bar echoed in the long hall.

With her keyboard in front of her and a stool behind her, she settled in and adjusted her mic. “Queen. I -  _love -_ Queen,” she almost whispered into the mic. “ _Don’t Stop Me Now._ ”

She started the sweeping counter melody on the piano and joined in singing after the pickup phrase. She sang her heart out through the intro and picked up the tempo with the first verse. The way their band performed this particular song was very different from the original. It was clearly styled like the first two songs, louder and harder. Cullen guessed that was the point, given their fan base. They covered just about any song in a hard rock or metal fashion.

Their performance continued much the same way, bantering on stage, performing a song, letting the crowd heckle them endlessly. The remainder of the first half of their set varied;  _The Trooper, Home Sweet Home, **Bang Your Head** , Round and Round, Under Pressure, Juke Box Hero, Cry Thunder, The Stroke, Holy Diver **.**_  He was enthralled by Amallia’s performance and in that moment, he felt the best he had in nearly ten months.


	27. Hysteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hysteria is one way to put it.

After nearly an hour of performing, they rounded out the first half of their set with _Holy Diver._ The bar shouted their praise of the “cover of a cover” as Amallia had coined it, ruckus shouts and cheers dying down as she motioned for them to settle.

“Now,  _that_  … was half a set. We’ll be back in a bit. Don’t you go changin’,” she said in a near whisper with a wink. Patrons and fans alike clapped appreciatively as the band left the stage.

With the break, Krem turned to them expectantly. “So? What do you think?”

“Holy shit, Krem, these guys are amazing!” Barris shouted over the cacophony of the bar.

“Yeah, nicely done, man. And ho-lee shit were you right about that keytar chick, she’s is fucking hot. Think you could introduce me?” Raleigh quipped, eyeing Krem with a hopeful look.

An unbidden rage seized Cullen and he nearly punched Raleigh. He startled such that Raleigh jumped back in his chair, only to immediately regret his erratic behavior.

“Rutherford, do you still have a foot up your ass? I thought you were enjoying it,” he asked.

Cullen palmed his face, wiping away his embarrassment. “Sorry, I …” he began, thought fading. “What you said. It just pissed me off. I don’t know, ignore me.” He tried to wave it off, giving Raleigh the out to drop it, but his friend wouldn’t let it go.

"What the hell did I –” Raleigh stopped himself short. “Son of a  _bitch_ , Cullen, that’s _her_! That’s the woman from the cafe!”

Cullen groaned. “Fuck my life,” he muttered, forehead hitting the table with a smack as he hands threaded through his hair. This could  _not_ be happening. He had been so concerned with Amallia noticing him that he had all but forgotten his friends had seen her at the cafe earlier that year. None of them had brought up the fact that he had ditched them for her. But  _now_ , at the worst possible moment, Raleigh, who claimed to have the memory span of a gnat, recalled that moment as if it had happened five seconds ago.

“Go talk to her!” Raleigh shoved him.

“No!” Cullen groaned as he thumped his head on the table repeatedly. Every prepared excuse rushed to the forefront of his mind; she was busy, she was visiting others, she had to go back on stage, she wouldn’t want to talk to him, she no longer cared about him, she hated him, she–

“Hey, Krem! You boys having–" 

He heard her voice over the din of the tavern, heart galloping out of control. A bucket of ice water. Where was it when he needed it most?

What could he do? Just sit there with his head down until she left? He pondered the thought, weighing the outcomes. If he remained hidden, he would go on not knowing. He would leave there that night having witnessed her experiencing the time of her life. Without him. The thought sickened him.

Resolve. There’s no way she would hate to see him there. He convinced himself of such when he lifted his head off the table, hair disheveled. The hackles of one side of his face scrunched up to his nose as his eyebrows crept towards his hair line.

Nothing. He couldn’t come up with a single word to say, only stare and hope she didn’t run screaming from the bar.

The brightest smile he had ever seen spread across her face, eyes blown wide. Her chest heaved with a sudden breath, caught in her throat. With a soft, lilting sigh, she muttered his name, and the sound of it on her lips was sweeter than any song he had ever heard.

That brief ray of hope died as quickly as it had appeared; Raleigh nearly leaped out of his chair and hugged her. For a second, she looked surprised but quickly recovered and hugged him back. "Well, you’re a friendly bunch.”

Cullen attempted to laugh along, masking his anger. He stamped down the urge to punch Raleigh again, his friend’s face nearly buried in her chest. Once he let her go, she dragged a chair from the stage and pulled it up to the table, straddling it with the back in front of her.

“So, can I ask you guys a personal question?” she asked them.

“Oh, Maker, no, please don’t,” Cullen begged.

“ _Yes!_ Ask me, I’ll answer  _any_  questions you have,” Raleigh insisted, nodding vigorously.

Krem shook his head in embarrassment. “Mal, I am  _so_ sorry I brought him, he has been Void bent on meeting you since I first told him about the band.”

She turned to Krem, sitting to her left, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Krem, you know that any of your friends are  _more_  than welcome at our shows, right? Even the creepy ones that damn near assault us?” she jested as she looked to Raleigh.

Krem and Barris laughed as Raleigh grimaced. Krem leaned into Mal’s embrace, nodding as he responded. “Absolutely, Mal. Wouldn’t think differently.”

“That’s my boy,” she said as she gave him a squeeze, ruffling his hair. “So, back to my question.”

Cullen sighed again, hoping she had forgotten her original pursuit. He muttered a silent prayer to the Maker, hoping she wouldn’t be too hard on him.

“Did you have to drag him kicking and screaming out here or did he go willingly?” she teased as she pointed to him. Barris, Krem, Raleigh burst into fits of laughter. Raleigh recovered and launched into the details of just how depressed Cullen had been and how he wasn’t worth a shit at work and how …

He stopped listening, fearing that his face was red with embarrassment. He felt the heat creeping up his neck to his ears again by the time they were telling her stories about him, regaling her with one embarrassing moment after the next. She laughed at each one, a full, belly laugh. The sight set his heart racing and in that moment he didn’t give a single  _fuck_  what his friends told her.

Suddenly, Amallia stood from her chair. With a shake of his head, he returned to reality; she had spent her entire break at their table. It wasn’t until their lead singer quite angrily motioned her to the stage that she noted the time. The chair was returned to the stage behind her and Cassandra moved it out of the way.

“Well, it was very nice meeting all of you, and wonderful to see you again, Krem. But, I really should be thanking all of you …” she paused as she rounded the table to where Cullen sat, her hand coming to rest on the back of his neck. Eyes blown wide, he froze, shocked at her sudden touch. And the sound of her voice as she completed her thought sparked an ache deep in his stomach. “… for dragging him along.”

She leaned over his shoulder, placing the other hand on his chest, and kissed him deeply. Her tongue dove past his lips, claiming him in front of everyone. Nearly the entire bar started heckling them, whistling and hooting at their public display.

Cullen failed to respond at first. The sudden, hard press of her lips on his and her fingers roving through his hair drove any thought from his mind. All he wanted was more but when he leaned in to return the kiss, she was too quick. She pulled away and Cullen nearly fell out of his chair, completely disheveled.

His friends laughed obnoxiously, Raleigh clapping him roughly on the shoulder and near to tears at Cullen’s predicament. The rest of the bar continued to heckle him, obscene sounds renewed. He ignored them, watching Amallia return to the stage. Overwhelming relief consumed him. With that kiss he knew without a doubt that something had changed.

When Amallia went for her keyboard, he saw the lead singer eyeing her angrily and barring her way behind the incredibly large man on bass guitar. He could just barely see around the bull of a man as she tried to skirt behind him, but the singer –  _Dale?_ – grabbed her upper arm to stop her and they appeared to exchange extremely heated words. She ripped her arm away from him and stomped to the keyboard at the forefront of the stage.

The moment passed as if it hadn’t happened at all and Amallia started the show once more. With a resounding, wailing  _yeah!_  into the mic, the bar returned her fervor two-fold.

“That’s right,” she said, voice echoing across the bar. “We’re back, and we’re ready to melt your faces off.”

Cassandra leaned into her mic. “Specifically, that’s  _my_ job.”

“Oh-ho!” Amallia replied, hand to her chest and eyebrows raised. “I stand corrected, _Cassandra_  is going to melt your faces off. What say you, Dorian?”

Instead of speaking, her cousin shredded away high on neck of the guitar, fingers flying faster than Cullen thought possible. With a wailing crash, Dorian dragged his hand all the way back down the neck to finish showing off.

“Cass, I think he just threw down the gauntlet,” Amallia taunted.

“We’ll see about that,” Cassandra said with a small sneer at Dorian.

The crowd approved of the rivalry and Amallia laughed. “Let’s do this, you ready for more?!” Amallia yelled to her audience.

The bar responded much the way it had most of the evening, cheering and shouting. Gasps echoed behind him, and Cullen turned to see a glass bottle lobbed from the back of the bar to sail over his head and land in a shattering crash on the floor, narrowly missing the stage. He nearly shot out of his chair, ready to find the ass who would dare throw anything at a performer, but stopped when Amallia spoke.

“You know,” she started, shaking her head. “We left the chicken wire up this time thinking you’d behave yourselves.” The patrons and fans laughed as Cassandra made strange squealing noises on her guitar. Cullen turned, half raised from his seat when he saw a bouncer dragging an incredibly inebriated patron away from the bar and towards the door.

“Sucks to be  _that_  guy,” she laughed. “Take it, Sera!”

Without delay, the drummer began tapping out a bright rhythm on a suspended piece of metal hanging from her set. Guitars joined in after a repeated phrase of the rhythm from the drummer.  Amallia returned her mic to its stand and left the stage, hopping down right in front of their table. Confusion mingled with a thrilling rush of excitement broke out as gooseflesh across Cullen’s arms.

She grabbed an empty chair from behind him and pulled it up to his left to sit next to him. He could see a sheen of sweat on her brow and she was breathing heavily. Over the sound of the band, she leaned into his ear and explained the song to him.

Their bassist was incredibly skilled and they had wanted to give him the opportunity to show off. So the song – he thought she said  _YYZ_  but it was so loud, he couldn’t be sure – was intended for him. It also gave her an additional rest considering two hours of singing, scream, shouting, and talking required more than a fifteen minute break.

At that, she said nothing else, wanting to rest her voice the song provided. Perfectly content, Cullen felt her body heat radiating from her, hotter than the sun. When he chanced a look at her, he found her smile brilliant enough to match. The song was fairly long, giving the bassist plenty of time to prove his style and skill. Although, Cullen noted, the drummer gave him a run for his money. The patterns and beats he combined with the various drums and cymbals amazed him. The young woman was a testament to the dexterity of the human body. Feet and hands ablur and each beating a different yet synchronized rhythm, she demonstrated the strength, the back bone of their group.

A distraction broke his concentration on the music when he felt a smooth warmth slip between his fingers. Amallia grasped his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Cullen looked to her from the corner of his eye but she was intently focused on her band’s performance, head bobbing along to the beat. Forever. Sitting there, with her hand in his forever would be perfect.

The fantasy ended too soon, the song complete, and Amallia leaped up from her chair to retake the stage. Back behind her keyboard, she grabbed up her mic and praised their bassist’s performance.

“Give it up for The Iron Bull!” she shouted and the bar responded in kind.

Cullen couldn’t help but laugh. He assumed the title was a stage name, but then the man saluted the bar with a partially closed fist – the index finger and pinky finger sticking straight up – and gave a bellow loud enough to shout over the crowd without a mic.  _The Iron Bull,_   _indeed._

“Alright, who wants some more metal?!” The bar shouted their approval and Amallia nodded with scrunch of her nose. “Well, a metal  _ballad_ , at least.”  When the crowd booed half-heartedly, she nodded. “I know. I’m a sap. And, coincidentally,” she continued as she looked directly at Cullen. “This song is called  _Hysteria._ ”

All sounds of disapproval drowned in shouts of praise that echoed as the crowd quieted. Cassandra started up on her guitar with the drummer, strumming along a classic rock melody. The groove was easy to move to and Amallia made that obvious. Her body curved and swayed to the rhythm of the opening phrase, free hand tapping on her hip, the other wrapped around the mic. She rocked from side to side in sultry motions, bobbing her head and flipping her hair, while throwing occasional glances at Cullen. She raised the mic to her lips and the words flowed freely.

 

> _Out of touch, out of reach, yeah_  
>  You could try to get closer to me  
>  I’m in love, I’m in deep, yeah  
>  Hypnotized, I’m shakin’ to my knees

Someone may as well have lit the building on fire. He wished for that bucket of ice water again, the song making him blush and skin tingle all over. The lyrics, while not perverted in the least, were suggestive enough to set his heart racing, his imagination running wild.

 

> _Oh, I get hysterical, hysteria_  
>  Oh, can you feel it, do you believe it?  
>  It’s such a magical mysteria  
>  When you get that feelin’, better start believin’  
>  ‘Cause it’s a miracle, oh, say you will, ooh babe  
>  Hysteria when you’re near

The bar was singing along with her, clearly knowing the song well. Cullen recalled having heard it before on the radio, but was not entirely familiar with it. Not that it mattered now. Amallia sang it, doing her best not to remain focused solely on him. Every time her eyes slid past him, her lips strained to keep singing through her smirk.

 

> _I gotta know to night_  
>  If you’re alone tonight  
>  Can’t stop this feelin’  
>  Can’t stop this fire

She rocked her hips, stomping her heel in time as she continued singing, nearing the end. Cullen knew he would  _never_  forget this song after watching her perform it, her body so in tune with it in more ways than one. When the last repeat of the chorus passed, the band finished in a roll of the last chord and the crowd cheered with rowdy praise.


	28. Talk Dirty To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then Amallia promptly embarrasses the shit out of him, but he wouldn't trade this moment for the world.

The longer the set went on, the better Cullen felt. The initial dread he had suffered earlier felt like a distant memory, silly and childish in retrospect. And even though he knew only some of the songs, Amallia’s love for all of it enthralled him. He was determined to learn more about her preferences and favorites, especially in music.

The second half of their set turned out to be an ode to love – or, less poetically, sex. The coincidence was not lost on him, grinning as Amallia played her keytar on  _Why Can’t This Be Love_. She synthesized the horn line for  _25 or 6 to 4_  on her full keyboard, only to return those instruments to the rear of the stage at that point.

She popped her mic out of the stand after returning to the front of the stage to address the bar. “So,” she began, jumping out of the way of a stage hand as he removed her keyboard stand. “I’m a little embarrassed, given our …  _company_  this evening.” She laughed a devilish laugh through a tight-lipped grin as she looked to Cullen. Cassandra dragged her fingers down and back up the neck of her guitar as Amallia hopped from the stage. The patrons laughed, hooting and hollering. Why were they staring at him? And with such smug faces? And why was she … oh,  _Maker’s breath_ ,  _that_   _walk,_ that slow, determined stride that swayed her hips and the strike of each boot on the floor echoed up her mile long legs to her breasts.

“I –  _love –_ the next song,” she nearly moaned into the mic as she sauntered towards him. She set fire to his skin with that voice, low and sultry, and he ached to have that voice all to himself again. “It’s so much fun to perform,” she whispered with a scrunch of her nose.

His body moved on its own, pivoting his chair to face her as she approached. When she reached him, she spoke soft and low into the microphone. “In fact, this song kind of …” she paused as she placed a knee on his chair between his thighs, pressing firmly against his swelling groin to lean over him as the other straddled his right leg. A hand reached over his shoulder, the bare skin of her bicep brushing his neck and more fire, gooseflesh, spread across his entire body in a shiver. He pulled his gaze from her cleavage, forcing them up to her hooded, blue eyes, peering at him through her lashes. Her impish grin parted, tongue flicking out to lick her lips and he wanted them, wanted them everywhere on him,  _around him._ The thought was lost when she shifted her knee against his groin once more as she whispered, “… it kinda  _turns me on._ ”

It took every ounce of control Cullen had left not to pull her down into his lap and have his way with her right there on the table. Shallow, ragged breaths pulled from his lungs as the tingle of reddening skin spread across his face. She leaned over him further, the low, loose neckline of her tank top gaping so far he could see the tops of her breasts, the hot pink fabric of her bra. His fingers dug into his own thighs, restraining himself against every impulse his body screamed. Waves of heat crashed over him, sweat breaking out across his brow as she leaned over him a little further and the slightest hitch of his hips against her thigh set her eyes aflame with blue fire.

“This song is called …”

He held his breath, caught in his throat as she spoke, gaze locked on his.

“ _Talk Dirty to Me.”_

Cassandra ripped into the guitar as Amallia bounded away from him in a flash. She jumped up to the stage, spinning around with a whip of her hair to start singing, eyes locked on Cullen as he heaved a sigh at the sudden loss of her body so near his.

> _You know I never, I never seen you look so good_  
>  You never act the way you should  
>  But I like it  
>  And I know you like it too  
>  The way that I want you  
>  I gotta have you  
>  Oh yes, I do

A bucket of ice water would do him well. With his embarrassment plain on his face, he thanked the Maker that they were seated, lest everyone know  _exactly_  the affect Amallia had on him. The song could not be more forward without being lude, but what the lyrics left out, Amallia filled in with her suggestive performance. She was dancing provocatively next to Cassandra, rubbing her hip against the side of the other woman.

> _You know I never_  
>  I never ever stay out late  
>  You know that I can hardly wait  
>  Just to see you  
>  And I know you cannot wait  
>  Wait to see me too  
>  I gotta touch you

She had turned into Cassandra, leaning her chest against the guitarists arm as she finished the second verse and was that  _jealousy_ he felt, envy creeping up his spine, wishing he stood where the guitarist did? Cassandra rolled her eyes, laughing as she continued to play and Amallia hopped away at the chorus.

> _‘Cause baby we’ll be_  
>  At the drive-in  
>  In the old man’s Ford  
>  Behind the bushes  
>  ‘Til I’m screamin’ for more  
>  Down the basement  
>  Lock the cellar door  
>  And baby  
>  Talk dirty to me

Where was that blasted bucket of ice water? If he could have willed it into existence, he’d have done so by now. He turned further into the table in front of him, fisted hands pressed into his groin. No one should be allowed to dance  _like that_  in public, the rolls and thrusts of her hips driving him mad with lust. He thanked the Maker again for poor bar lighting, tables, and pants, wishing for that damned bucket again.

When Amallia bounded across the stage for the second verse, she sidled up next to her bassist, who paid her no mind. The man was huge, appearing larger as she hoisted a leg, dragging up along his thigh with a hitch of her hips and back arching as she grasped his belt.

> _You know I call you_  
>  I call you on the telephone  
>  I’m only hoping that you’re home  
>  So I can year you  
>  When you say those words to me  
>  And whisper so softly  
>  I gotta hear you

Back at center stage, she started the chorus again, dancing in the same provocative manner, hips rolling so suggestively it was impossible to miss the meaning. Coupled with the song, Cullen’s imagination ran wild with flat-bed pick-up trucks, drive-in movie theaters, sleeping bags, and  _her_.  _Them. Alone. Andraste preserve me!_

 _Cassie, pick up that guitar and_ talk _to me!_

Cassandra belted out a solo, much to the pleasure of the audience. She made ridiculous faces as she played, nodding her head in approval of the crowd’s praise. Amallia mimicked her on air-guitar, shoulder to shoulder with her band mate.

The chorus followed once more and Amallia turned to lean back against the other Cassandra’s shoulder, dipping up and down against her arm. As she sang, she kneeled down to the floor, sliding against the side of Cassandra’s leg, her knees bending and  _spreading_  so wide, Cullen wondered how she hadn’t exposed herself. A second later, she stood back up, bent over a the waist with her bottom against the other woman’s hip, back arched and a hand on her thigh. Amallia belted out the words –  _‘Til I’m screamin’ for more! More! More!_  – while shaking her hips.

Stunned, Cullen gaped openly as Cassandra raised a swift hand and  _slapped_  Amallia right on the ass, perfectly in time with the crash of a cymbal. The bar erupted in a deafening roar of shouts, whistles, and catcalls. All he could do was gawk at her display of sexuality. He would have to ask Amallia to sing this song for him again someday.  _Privately._

Still in shock, the song ended without him noticing. Amallia took a bow as the bar patrons wailed their approval with the thunderous drums. Cullen caught a few choice words flung from behind him, but he ignored them easily, enraptured by the woman on stage before him.

Torment was the only thought that came to mind. To see her on stage, continuing the set with  _Danger! High Voltage, Slip of the Lip, Hot for Teacher,_ and  _Unskinny Bop,_ the strain on his body, his mind, was too much. Why now, here, where he could do nothing but watch? The ache of longing nearly forced him from his seat.

But the bar quieted as Amallia leaned back on her stool, tossing Cassandra a narrowed stare, pondering an idea.

“Cass, can I borrow your guitar?”

The other woman looked confused. “Um. No?” Laughter followed.

“C’mon, just one song, then we’ll close,” Amallia pleaded.

Cassandra approached her and handed her guitar over. “Don’t break it,” she said into Amallia’s mic.

“What kind of musician do you think I am?” Amallia scoffed as she threw the strap over her head.

“A shitty one,” Cassandra mocked.

The blond at the drums beat out a comedic drop and the bar laughed on cue.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Amallia started as she adjusted the guitar. “I’m tossing in an extra song here, then we’ll close with our regularly scheduled program. Sound good?”

The crowd cheered their leading lady onward.

“Alright, so, you all know we play a lot of music. You’ve heard some truly epic metal tonight,” she paused as the metal heads cheered loudly, the drummer blasting at the bass drum. “You’ve heard some tunes that we turned  _into_ some truly epic metal tonight!” she shouted and the crowed mimicked her in their approval. “And you’ve heard some classic rock that we’ll never stop playing,” she finished and the crowd roared once more.

“But, right now, I’m about to play a song that I’m guessing none of you know. Well, almost none of you,” she said as she looked down to Cullen. He tensed in his seat, worry crashing into him with unrelenting force. If she sang to him, sang  _that_ song again …

“This song is not metal. It is not even classic rock. It’s a little guitar bit that is very near and dear to my heart and I have to get it out of me. Anybody that likes the Beatles will get it.”

The crowd clapped appreciatively, a few people whistling. Panic settled in the pit of Cullen’s stomach, fingers clenching the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip. Maker, this couldn’t be happening. Why would she do this? Baited breath seized in his chest, throat tight with fear.

“So, now, I give you,” she paused looking to Cullen. “ _Wish_.”

Relief. Pure, sweet, relief. There was nothing but her voice, singing for him, and the world ceased to exist.


	29. Death By Brownie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They agree to a date, but he stands her up?

By the time Amallia had a chance to break away from her band mates as they worked to tear down their equipment, Cullen, Krem, Raleigh, and Barris were the only patrons left, seated at the bar. A cold bottle of beer rolled in his fingers as he waited, nerves wavering between outright panic and mildly anxious.

A cold, clammy hand settled over his, mid-conversation with Raleigh and his thought stopped dead. That familiar touch pushed anything he might have said from his mind as he turned to find Amallia seated next time, grinning ear to ear. Andraste wept, but she was beautiful.

Was that a glimmer of hope in her eye he found? Nervous as he? The tension broke when she leaned in and whispered to him.

“Well?” she asked.

He arched an eyebrow at her with a deep breath. “Mal that was the most fun I’ve had in …” he paused. “Ten months.”

Fingers tightened around his own as she scoffed, appearing disgusted with herself. “I’m so sorry, Cullen.”

A lopsided grin hooked the right corner of his mouth. “No, please, it’s … we’ve both been very stupid about this.”

 _That_  infectious, lilting laugh of hers never failed to warm his heart. “We have,” she agreed. “Listen, I have to help pack up and get everything back to Bull’s place. But I wanted to tell you that I’ve …” she paused a moment, thoughtful eyes searching the bar for the right words. “I’ve put a ton of serious thought into this and … I’d like to start over.”

The words tumbled from his mouth without a second thought. "Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

 

The darkness of the booth tucked in the far corner of the restaurant hid her from prying eyes. Amallia smoothed her dress nervously, impatiently awaiting Cullen’s arrival. Early. But, the hostess had seated her anyway.

The sublevel of the restaurant had a speakeasy aesthetic, endearing 20s big band, and 30s and 40s jazz playing softly over the speakers.  _Oh, Cullen_. He’d picked the perfect place. Quiet, intimate, amazing food, and  _great_  music to boot. Perfect.

Goodman, Armstrong, and Basie were all there to keep her company, crackling over the speakers while the time ticked by as she sipped at her drink, a Manhattan on the rocks.

_10 after. Where is he?_

She glanced at her phone. No messages, no missed calls. Sipping from her glass, she nursed her drink, wanting a clear head to talk with Cullen. Minutes slipped by, like grains of sand through her fingers, and before she knew it, 7:30 rolled past.

Calloway, Ellington, and the modern Goodwind comforted her nerves. By quarter to eight, she grew worried. She sent a text message. When he didn’t respond by 8:30, she called him. His phone rang repeatedly before going to voicemail.

She tried once more at 9, and when he didn’t answer, reality consumed her. She tried to fathom why,  _why hadn’t he shown_ , and she answered the question for herself. _Idiot._   _Why would he_ want _to be with you after what you did to him?_

Tears flooded her vision as she stared at her phone, hoping,  _willing_  him to return her call. Just to let her know something had come up, that it wasn’t her fault. It couldn’t be her fault, not after seeing him, so happy, last night. But she knew the truth.

She threw cash on the table to cover her drink and a tip, stood, and left. The soft, breathy whisper of a tenor saxophone –  _My Funny Valentine_ , _oh how appropriate –_ followed her out of the restaurant. The sweltering late August heat met her head-on through the doors, and her feet took her to Dorian’s apartment not very far away. Forget. Maybe she could forget about what she’d done, forget about him and his face, his perfect lips, his velvety voice; forget about his wavy, blond hair, his calloused hands, and the warmth of his skin on hers, everything that she’d fallen for that night so many months ago.

She was staring at Dorian’s apartment door, so wrapped up in her thoughts she hadn’t even realized it. With the key she’d kept, she unlocked it and entered. Dorian rounded the corner, angry at first, shouting Tevinter obscenities before he saw Amallia’s tear-stained face. Teeth clicking shut, he beckoned her to him with outstretched arms.

She stumbled into his embrace, head buried in his neck. Sobs wracked her body, shoulders shuddering under each gasp. Dorian squeezed her to him gently, soothing her as he stroked her hair.

“Yes, love, let it out,” he breathed as she sobbed. “Soon, you won’t feel anything at all and then you’ll move on.”

She protested, pushing back from his arms. “Dorian, I don’t want to move on. He stood me up.”

His brow furrowed. “You do know where he lives, right? Could you tell me? I would like to give him a piece of my mind.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not helping. At all. I can’t get a hold of him. I’m not sure what to think. It could be anything; work, family, accident. He could be in the hospital for all I know. But I get the sickening feeling he just … didn’t want to see me.”

Dorian scoffed. “That is absolutely untrue. I saw him at the bar last night.” He ushered her to the couch. “I simply assumed you’d decided the relationship was not what you wanted.”

“I waited over two hours,” she sighed as she collapsed on the couch in a huff.

“Oh, Mal. I’m so sorry. I’ll get the Death-By-Brownie ice cream and we’ll watch old movies until we pass out. Sound good?” he asked as he headed for the kitchen.

“Best idea I’ve heard all night.”


	30. Rescue Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia learns of Cullen's lyrium use and subsequent withdrawal from quitting.

The buzzing of her phone echoed in the distant fog of sleep. Against her hip, the vibration pulled her from the edges of her slumber, awkwardly jarring her awake. Her neck twisted painfully as she pushed up from Dorian’s shoulder, fumbling as he shifted beneath her. As he had predicted, they’d fallen asleep to  _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_  in the predawn hours.

Silence. Too late, she withdrew her phone from the twisted pocket of her dress. As she stared at the screen, Dorian tilted his head over the arm of the couch, grimacing when he saw the time on the clock hanging on the wall. 6 AM.

“Ugh, who is calling you at this  _unholy_ hour?” he mumbled.

Three missed calls and seven text messages waited for her. One text from her sister around midnight contained a picture of Commander, sleeping soundly in front of the couch, his usual spot. The image was accompanied with a message:

_Your pup is fine. But I’ll stick around until you’re back in the morning. Be careful! Lava yew!_

Her smile faded in an instant; the remaining messages and missed calls were from Cullen, all within the last hour. Another missed connection. His last call had awoken her. Quickly, she flipped through the text messages. Each contained only a few words:  _I’m sorry, I need help; Please call me; Help me; I need you; Call me; I’m so sorry._

No voicemails. A sense of dread filled her. What had happened?

“Dorian, I think something is wrong,” she muttered, voice wavering unsteadily.

“Hm?” He had drifted off to sleep again. “Whatever it is, can it wait? I want to make breakfast,” he mumbled into the arm of the couch.

“Hold on, I have to make a phone call,” she uttered to the screen of her phone. Nerves, near panic, pushed her from the couch and she stalked into the kitchen. Dorian turned over to take up the entire couch and resumed his slumber.

In the kitchen, she brought her phone to her ear as it dialed out. Several rings sounded before a voicemail picked up.

_This is Cullen Rutherford, please leave a message at the tone and I will return your call as soon as I am available._

She sighed, waiting for the beep.  _Calm. Breathe. Relax._  The tone sounded and there was not an ounce of calm left in her voice. “Cullen, it’s Mal, I just got all of your messages. Please … call me back as soon as you get this. Bye.”

She ended the call and stalked back to the living room. Dorian peered over the back of the couch at her.

“He called you?” he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“A couple times. He texted me several times before that. Something is wrong. His texts made no sense …” she explained, leaving the thought unfinished.

Brow furrowed, Dorian stood and rounded the couch. “Well, what—“

Her phone interrupted him.  _Tristram_. “It’s him.” She hesitated, looking to Dorian.

“Answer it!” he shouted in disbelief. “Maker, woman, you’re ridiculous,” he mumbled to himself as he rolled from the couch to stumble to the bathroom.

She touched the green icon flashing on the screen and brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

Heavy, ragged breaths echoed through the ear piece. Dragging wheezes. And then a voice attempted to speak in a croak. “Mal?”

Her instinct confirmed, fear exploded in her chest. A cold terror spread to her hands and feet and her gut clenched. “Cullen? What’s wrong?”

“I’m … withdrawal. I need help,” he choked.

“Withdrawal? From what?!” she cried out.

She heard a disgusted grunt as he cursed to himself. “L-lyrium. It’s bad, Mal,” he managed. “Can you come over?”

A thousand questions tumbled through her heard but she pushed them aside. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just … get here as fast as you can,” he blurted out. Without another word, the call ended. Amallia wasn’t sure if the call had dropped or if Cullen had ended it himself. In a second, she made her decision and grabbed her clutch off the counter.

“Dorian!” she cried from the hallway as she texted her sister; she would need her to watch Commander for the day.

Dorian leaned out of the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth.

“I’m leaving. Cullen is … he’s sick. He … wants me to come over,” she explained as she put her shoes on.

Dorian took his toothbrush from his mouth. “You’re going like that?”

She looked down at her rumpled black dress, slept-in and wrinkled. “I don’t think I have any other option,” she sighed in exasperation.

“Maker, Mal, we wear the same damn size,” he admonished as he traipsed back to his room. Within a minute, he handed her a red and black flannel button-up, slim black jeans, and a pair of socks.

“Really, Dorian?” she asked.

“I’m  _not_ letting you go to his place like some sort of ragamuffin.  _Change_ ,” he commanded as he stalked back to his room. “I’ll find you some high tops.”

She changed swiftly, the dress pulling over her head and the jeans slipping on easily. She pulled on the flannel, rolling up the sleeves and tucking in the front half-assed. With the socks on her feet, Dorian returned with a pair of high top sneakers. “Here. You at least look like you sort of know how to dress yourself. Put these on,” he admonished as he shoved a pair of black ray-ban sunglasses on her face.

She slipped the shoes on and grabbed her clutch, pushing the glasses further up on her nose. “Thanks,” she said as she started through the door. “I’ll call you later when I know more.”

“Be careful, cousin,” he called to her. With a brisk stride, she exited his apartment and made for the stairs.

In the lobby, she noted that it would take far too long to walk to Cullen’s apartment from here. Hailing a cab took seconds before a bright yellow car pulled up next to her. She entered the backseat and gave the driver her old address.

Minutes ticked by, too much time for her mind to wander. Cullen suffered from withdrawal of lyrium. Why had he ever been on the drug in the first place? There could hardly be any reasonable explanation, unless it had been required of him, out of his control. Withdrawal. Quitting, then? Breaking away from such a drug was no easy feat.

The car halted in front of the tall building, street empty in the early Sunday hour. She handed the driver cash and leaped from the car, running for the door. The buzzer rang long as she held down the button for his apartment.

A minute passed and, when nothing happened, she buzzed again. A third buzz, and the door before her remained locked. She looked at the list of tenants to find _Tethras_  scribbled half way down and she clicked the button there.

Within two seconds, a man grumbled through the speaker. “Come back later.”

“Varric! Varric, it’s Amallia. Can you buzz me in?”

A brief pause before his voice returned. “Amallia? Didn’t you move out like a week after you moved in?”

“Yes, but … I need to get in. A … one of your tenants needs help,” she pleaded.

Silence. Did he doubt her? Nerves crept skyward. Varric’s voice crackled over the speaker again, full of worry. “Is it Curly? Is he okay?” he asked.

“Who … Cullen? You mean Cullen? No, he’s not okay, just let me in, please.”

Without another question, the door before her buzzed and she threw it wide, racing through the lobby. Up two flights of stairs, she bounded down the hall to find Varric waiting for her, the door to his apartment standing slightly ajar behind him.

“What happened?”

“I think he’s sick,” she said gasping for breath. “Can you let me in to his place?”

“Sure.” He strode to the end of the hall with a giant ring of keys. As he went to unlock the door, he knocked first. From somewhere inside the apartment, Amallia heard a grunting yell.

“I suppose he won’t mind if I just … let you in,” Varric said with a raised eyebrow, looking her over from head to toe.

Amallia said nothing, glaring at him as she folded her arms beneath her breasts. If her hair had been in a braid, she would have given it a tug, but she settled for tapping her foot instead.

“Fine! I’m doing it,” he said as he turned back to the lock. The bolt flipped over and he pushed the door open an inch with the handle. “There.”

“Thanks, Varric. I owe you,” she said as she stepped past him.

“Just make sure he’s alright,” Varric sighed as she closed the door. She gave him a smile and a nod, clicking the door shut.

She turned into Cullen’s apartment and froze. Still. Silent.  _There_. She turned her ear towards the sound. A radio echoed around the corner to her left.  _Distance_. Drawn to the sounds of the song, she turned the corner to find a blanket covered lump on the couch. “Cullen?”

He stirred, jolting at the sound of her voice. “Mal?” Eyes appeared over the edge of the blanket, squinting and brow knitted in a furious scowl. He looked terrible. Sunken eyes with dark circles and unruly hair, he must not have slept properly in at least two nights. He shook beneath the blanket, shivering severely. She rushed to him, dropping her clutch on the coffee table and kneeling down in front of him. He collapsed back on the pile of pillows beneath him, face softening.

“Oh, Maker, Cullen, you look awful,” she cried as she stroked his forehead. “And you’re scalding. Is it that bad?”

On cue, his body seized, convulsing in pain. He could only nod.

“Have you drank anything, eaten anything?”

He shook his head. “Not since Fr-Friday,” he managed.

“When did this start?” she asked.

“Sat-Saturday morning,” he chattered.

The strangest mix of relief and guilt consumed her. She kissed his forehead softly, fingers threaded through his hair. “I’ll get you some water and make you some food. Get something in your stomach. Sound good?”

He nodded, the faintest of smiles at the corners of his lips. She stood and hurried to the kitchen, searching frantically for a glass. Why hadn’t he gone to the hospital? Why had he been on lyrium in the first place? Everyone knew just how addictive the drug was. And Cullen, of all people? Mr. Protocol? The only reasonable explanation is that his job had required it of him at one point. She couldn’t picture Cullen willingly taking up lyrium on his own.

She returned to him with a full glass of water, but his hands shook so violently, she was afraid he would spill it. She edge the coffee table closer to the couch and set the glass there. When she turned to him again, his face was a study of concern.

“Are you … alright?” he asked as he reached out to touch her arm with trembling fingers.

“Me?” she replied, astounded. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

An insistent shake of his head and he replied, “No. They’ll just give me a … a substitute form of lyrium. Supposed to be on it, really. The –“ he cut off, convulsing and he left the thought unfinished. “No more drugs. No hospital.”

She nodded in agreement. “Alright, no hospital. I’ll do what I can. Anything in particular you don’t want to eat? I was thinking of breakfast,” she muttered softly as she cupped his cheek, thumb rasping across his stubble.

His hand at her arm had calmed, and he eyed the glass on the table. When Amallia handed it to him, he drank deeply, consuming half of it. “Breakfast should be fine.”

She tried to stand but Cullen had grabbed her arm with surprising strength. She knelt back down, hand on his shoulder.

“I am so sorry about last night,” he said. She found his eyes red and watery. Withdrawal? Or sadness? She couldn’t be sure.

“Oh, Cullen, please don’t,” she soothed. “You have nothing to apologize for. At all.”

“Thank you for coming, Mal.”

“For you, Cullen, anything.”


	31. Solo, Take 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if it weren't complicated enough, Cullen is completely ashamed Amallia has seen him at his worst.

Well into the evening, Cullen’s withdrawal symptoms maintained as Amallia attempted to care for him. Whatever he asked for, she did, and when he slept she cradled his head in her lap, brushing her fingers through his hair and passed the time reading a book she had picked from his shelf –  _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_ , and dammit, she was hooked – or watching movies.

During the late evening, she dozed, having slept so little the night before. Dreams and nightmares mingled, seamlessly shifting from one to the next. Dreams of an embrace, tugged closely into a set of strong, secure arms, only to be stifled by them until she grew unbearably hot.

The buzz of her phone on the glass of the coffee table, so near her head, startled her awake. She jolted off the couch, tangled in a heavy blanket. Cullen’s blanket, smelling so distinctly of him. In a stupor, she snatched her phone from the coffee table and punched the screen with her thumb.

“Mal, where are you?”

Her eyes popped open. Cullen’s blanket. Cullen’s  _apartment_. Maker, she’d forgotten while she slept that she’d left Dorian’s and gone to Cullen’s apartment to care for him.

“Karris?”

“I have to go to work, where the hell are you?” her sister demanded.

“Uh, I’m still at Cullen’s. I’m so sorry, I fell asleep,” she said as she stood, the blanket falling to the floor.

Her sister scoffed, clearly annoyed with Amallia. “How long will you be?”

“I … I don’t know, fifteen minutes? I just need to catch a cab,” she mumbled, still groggy with sleep.

“Alright, see you then.”

“Bye.”

Phone in hand, she took in a sweep of the apartment, confused. He might have gone to bed, but when she checked his room, there was no sign of him. Perfectly made bed. Clean desk. Computer off.

In another trip to the kitchen, a sense of terror filled her, hands and toes tingling with cold. A note lay on the counter, written in a slanting scrawl.

_Mal,_

_I owe you a great debt for everything you did for me yesterday. I had to work this morning and I did not want to disturb you, so I let you sleep._

_I am ashamed. I never wanted you to see me in that state. I kept my withdrawal and my lyrium use to myself for a reason. And now I have determined far too late that I cannot be with someone while I am still recovering._

_I know this sounds ridiculous. Trust me, it sounds ridiculous in my head as I write. I want nothing more than to be with you, to start over. But I do not think I can be the partner you deserve. I hope you can understand that._

_I am also terribly sorry for not being in contact on Saturday. I should have made it a point to call you earlier, to let you know I was not going to make it. But, based on your attire yesterday, I assumed you found someone else to make it up to you. I hope he treats you well._

_With all of my heart,_

_Cullen_

Was this how it had felt? The morning she had abandoned him, had he felt the very same sense of despair and loss she felt at that moment? Guilt anew consumed her, tears flowing freely. How? How could she have been so selfish? How could she have done something so cruel, hurt someone this way? She knew that, at that time, she thought she was doing the best thing for the both of them. So much had changed since then.  _Everything has changed_.

She brought the note with her to the couch and collapsed, reading it again.  _His_ selflessness was both a blessing and a curse. She could not understand the desire to recover alone. And yet, at least he had been able to tell her that, unlike herself, who had given him utter  _bullshit_  reasons for leaving.

She bit back more tears that welled as she read the letter a third time, confusion replacing her sadness. His last words made little sense. She had gone straight to Dorian’s after she’d left the restaurant and stayed there all night. Why did he suspect she had spent the night with another man?

She looked at her now wrinkled flannel shirt, untucked and hanging askew on her shoulders. Her high tops sat near the door. And her jeans, while skinny, were clearly meant for the narrow hips of a man, pinching her ample bottom awkwardly.

Had he truly thought she’d spent the night with another man because she was wearing a man’s clothes? That had not occurred to her until now. And she couldn’t blame Cullen for misunderstanding. What else was he to have assumed?

 _He could have just not assumed at all. Or asked._ She sighed, wiping the tears from her face. She knew those expectations were unreasonable. It was clear from his note that his drug use and recovery were very personal and a much larger issue for him, not wanting to force anyone into dealing with it.

Resigned, she grabbed her clutch and slipped on her shoes. She took one last look across his apartment and fled, feeling the worst she had since the day she had left him.


	32. Happenstance, A Revision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A near perfect reversal, one year later to the day.

October ushered in the first signs of fall. Birds rarely visited her feeder and the trees of the park only a few blocks away faded from green to yellow, orange, and red. It looked as though the park had been set aflame, fiery trees flickering in the soft breeze.

Amallia sat in her studio at her keyboard gazing out of the window before her. Her laptop recorded all of her keystrokes, whatever jingle or melody or chord progression she could think of as her mind wandered. The score for the movie was nearly finished, but one track lacked a certain feel the rest of the score provided in full.

As she plundered notes from the keyboard, her eyes closed. There was not one minute in the last four weeks that had gone by since she had last seen Cullen that she had ceased to think about him. She worried, wondered, hoped for him. The pain and frustration they had both endured over the last year had culminated in that last meeting, with the tables turning on her as he pushed away like she had done so many times before.

A slow, wandering melody elicited from the piano by her fingers drifted low to wallow in spine-tingling tritones. Minor chord. Tritone. Resolution. The haunting tones  ** _whispered_** to her _,_ **_hushed_** and secretive **.** For hours she continued, working at the melody to extract the perfect emotion, the sweetest ache of longing, of sadness at missed possibilities, of a dark and bleak future ruined long ago in the past.

She mixed the track on her laptop, transforming the melody to a cello but filtering it through severe distortion. She accompanied it with a small string ensemble and softly rolling drums thrumming the beat slowly, marching the piece onward inexorably.

Her effects director would add ambient sounds to round out the feel, the emotion, blending it perfectly with its intended scenes. Within weeks, a live orchestra would record, post-production would wrap, and the release would be in a matter of months. Satisfied with her work, she left in search of dinner.

Her fridge was bare and the prospect of cooking anything did not appeal to her. She pulled on a sweater and tennis shoes to take a walk around the block for a hearty serving of penne and red sauce. The hallway was empty except for a scrap of paper lying half way to the door across from her. She paid it no mind, heading for the elevators, not wanting to take seven flights of stairs to the lobby below.

Once in the lobby, she quickly crossed the open space to the doors, emerging onto the empty sidewalk. One block west and across the street, she looked to the large studio building of her office. The early Friday evening hour left the narrow side street unused. To the east she checked the block, glancing up at the towering office building half a block away, also across the street. A dark, charcoal gray car sat directly in front of the building, alone. She squinted, not quite able to tell what it was at that distance, but an odd memory stirred in the back of her mind. Fleeting. She failed to grasp it, nearing only to lose the thought on the tip of her tongue. When she couldn’t place it, she shrugged and headed west for the diner.

Cool autumn air drifted lazily between the tall buildings of the city as streamers of sun peaked through the gaps between them. The restaurant was a mere block away, just around the corner. She walked quickly, hunger spurring her faster. When she arrived, the man behind the counter greeted her knowingly, immediately putting in her favorite order.

As she waited, she recounted the piece of music she had worked on that day, noting improvements she wanted to implement the minute she returned to her studio. Mia would be quite interested in hearing the piece, she knew, since the idea of using tritones had come from her. Amallia hoped her mentor would be pleased with her work.

Within minutes, her food was ready. She paid and left quickly, eager to get back to her keyboard to record her ideas lest she forget them. Around the corner she glanced at her phone as a text message from Karris arrived. She responded as she walked, agreeing to dinner the following evening with her sister and Dorian. She hummed to herself in an effort to retain the lines she wanted to add to the score.

A bright clash of metal on the cement ahead of her snapped her back to reality. As her eyes turned up to the door of her apartment building, all thought fled. Her feet stopped, planted in their place and her lips parted in disbelief.

An odd, backwards sense of déjà vu settled in as Amallia watched Cullen balance a large box in one arm and handle his keys with his free hand. He had not seen her, the box partially obscuring his vision.  _His_ car. A half-remembered memory. It sat on the street behind him, boxes piled in the passenger seat. Now that it was twenty feet away from her, the fastback was obvious. Gorgeous. Sleek lines and metallic gray shimmered in the sun. Grace and power wrapped into one incredible machine.

She should run, she knew, but her feet carried her forward instead. As she approached him, she heard him curse as he failed to put the correct key in the lock for a third time.

“Need a hand?” she asked as she neared him.

Startled, he froze at the sound of her voice. Slowly, he peered over the box, eyes widening as they met hers. His health had clearly improved since the last she had seen him. The dark circles were a distant memory, and he looked alert, alive.

When he said nothing, she took the box from his arms. “Ugh, what do you have in here, bricks?!”

“Yeah,” he stated flatly. “Er, no! I … books. Not bricks, they’re books.”

She laughed a hearty chuckle as Cullen continued to stare awkwardly. “Cullen, please open the door.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed as he jumped back to the lock. “Sorry. I’m … I uh …” He unlocked the door and swung it wide to allow her in.

“Don’t worry, I tend to have that effect on people,” she joked.

“Mal, you have no …,” he trailed off as he watched her head for the elevators. “Wait. This is … what’s going on here? Is this … really what I think it is?” he asked as he followed her through, a grin hooking his mouth.

“You make it sound like that would be such a terrible coincidence,” she jested with a side-eyed appraisal of him. With the box balanced in her arms, she lifted a foot and poked the elevator button with the tip of her tennis shoe.

Cullen’s face reddened. “I have the distinct feeling this is about to get far more coincidental,” he said as the elevator door opened with a double bell chime.

She laughed again as she entered and moved towards the far corner. Cullen followed and pressed the button for the seventh floor.

“Ah, good ol’ number seven,” she sighed, mocking him.

The doors closed and the elevator lurched up as Cullen looked to her, throwing his own side-eyed stare her way. “Seven. It’s a good number,” he mumbled.

“That it is. Seventh Heaven, I like to think,” she replied as she shifted the box in her arms.

He moved to take it from her. “I am perfectly capable of carrying that, you know.”

She pulled the box away from him, admonishment plain on her face. “You will not ruin how perfectly backwards this moment is, Mr. Rutherford. I will not allow it,” she demanded in feigned seriousness. Cullen laughed as the elevator stopped, bell ringing as the doors opened to admit them to the seventh floor.

He led her down the hall, taking a left at the split. At the end of the hall he stopped to stoop down and snatch the stray piece of paper from the floor. To his right he turned, key ready in his fingers but he didn’t bother unlocking the door. The paper had is undivided attention, eyes running across the lines scribbled there.

“Cullen …” she pleaded, the box seemingly heavier since she had taken it from him.

“Right.” Quickly, he unlocked the door and pressed it open, standing aside for her to enter. His penthouse suit mirrored hers, huge windows lining the two exterior walls. Living room and kitchen gave way to each other, seamless, tricking the eye into seeing more space than was really there. New furniture scattered about, strategically placed with precise skill. She set the box atop the kitchen counter, along with her food, and ventured further towards the windows.

“Your dinner is going to get cold,” his voice echoed from behind her.

She waved it off. “I’ll eat it tomorrow. Have you used your pool at all?”

When he failed to respond, she turned over her shoulder to find him across the living room at the receiver, turning on the speakers.  _Whatever_   _It Takes._  Was he doing that on purpose? Her heart hammered in her chest as she watched Cullen cross the living room to stand behind her, staring out at his covered pool.

“I only just moved in a few days ago. But I know you’ve used yours.”

“All summer,” she replied as she turned to face him, brow furrowed. “How did you know?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said as he rubbed the back of his neck, weight shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. He stared, waiting. Always waiting.  _For her._

She had to do it now. There was no way she could keep going on this way, and she was determined to take the leap of faith he seemed to need from her. She could hardly hear herself think over the pounding thumps of her heart, blood rushing through her ears. The most frightening leap of her life stood before her but she wanted it. More than anything she had ever wanted.

“I want to clarify a few things,” she started, hooking a lock of hair behind her ear. “The morning you left last month? You wrote me a note. And I think you ended up with the wrong idea.”

He looked away, embarrassed by the memory. “I am very sorry about that. There was a lot going on at the time and I—“

“Cullen, stop for just a minute? Please?” she interrupted, exasperated, and he nodded with a sigh. “You thought I’d stayed with another man that night. While that’s true, and yes, I  _was_  wearing men’s clothing the next day, you need to know it was _Dorian_  I spent the rest of my evening with, bawling my eyes out while I shoveled a ridiculous amount of Death-By-Brownie ice cream down my throat and watched stupid romantic movies until I passed out. Those were  _Dorian’s_ clothes. He insisted I change before I went to help you.”

There. That had gotten his attention. As the shock and embarrassment sunk in a little further, his eyes raised to the ceiling. A pink flush had crept up his neck to color his cheeks and he groaned.

“Andraste’s  _tits_ , I’m an asshole,” he muttered

Amallia scoffed with a roll of her eyes as she took a tentative step towards him, a hand lifting up to touch him. Another step and her fingers came to rest on the hard planes of his chest, gliding up to his shoulder. Tense. His body froze at the connection, so sudden and unexpected.

“Cullen, of all the things you are, an asshole is not one of them. It was an easy mistake to make,” she began. Before she continued, she took a deep, clarifying breath to steady herself. Resolve. She needed every ounce she had left. “I …”

What resolve? Any she had mustered fled when his lips crashed down upon hers, swallowing every last word she had wanted to say. When had his arms wrapped around her so tightly? One snaked around her waist to the small of her back, pressing her to his center, the other around her shoulder to thread his fingers deep into her hair.

She returned the kiss two-fold, tongue laving against his lips that parted for her. He sighed so softly she had barely heard it, but it was enough to send her head reeling with lust. Her hands slipped up into his hair, grasping firmly as she pressed the kiss further. Heat blossomed deep in her core to spread across her entire body in a rush. Control fled and she surrendered to every desire she had, passing the reins over when she felt the roll of his hips, the swell of him, grinding at her center.

_He needs to know._

Time stopped. Every single fiber of her being cried out at the interrupting thought. But she knew it was the right thing to do. She owed him  _that_ much. The ache between her legs protested in earnest when she pulled back from him.

“I have to talk with you,” she heard herself say.

Cullen heaved a breath before nodding, licking his lips. “I know. I … I don’t know what came over me. You’re here and I’ve missed you so. I didn’t … oh, Mal, I don’t know what to do.”

She took him by the hand and lead him to the couch where she sat, motioning for him to sit next to her. “I think I can help,” she suggested with a coy smile.

He sat next to her, close, thighs touching. The feel of him so near almost tipped her beyond talk. Resolve, once more. She clawed up what courage she had left and turned to face him, gaze locking on his amber eyes that burned molten hot. The words tumbled from her lips before she knew it.

“I love you.”

Was that shock? Fear? His wide-eyed stare conveyed little she could interpret so she pressed further. “I … I  _love_  you. I am  _in_  love with you. There’s not a day that goes by I don’t think about you and damn near everything I see and hear and do reminds me of you somehow. I want to  _be_  with you.”

Cullen found his voice, wavering and unsure. “You … are you sure? I mean-“

“Stop with the second-guessing! You know this is what you’ve wanted for months, Cullen! I’m ready. I want it, too. I’ve wanted it for some time. And I realized I’d never be able to burden you with all sorts of explanations for my behavior without seriously considering this first. I love you. That’s … what I’ve figured out. I wasn’t sure at first, but I am now. Without a single doubt in my mind, I love you.”

His hug felt as though it would crush her ribs, squeezing her so tightly she could hardly breathe. With his face buried in the crook of her neck, she felt him shudder in her embrace. Sobbing. Her own breath caught in her throat as tears welled in her eyes.

When he pulled back from her, he wiped at his face, smile widening into his wolfish grin. “Well … about damn time you figured it out.”

“Oh, shut it,” she jested with a shove. Sniffling, she continued. “So. Ready for me to regale you with all sorts of lame excuses for my behavior the last year?”


	33. Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

How had his heart not exploded? It was by no small miracle that he hadn’t passed out, had not screamed or shouted. His first instinct at hearing her words was to grasp her to him, bodily, and never let go lest he lose her once more.

“I love you, too,” he mumbled through the fog clouding his mind. A disgusted sigh followed the reddening of his cheeks again as he palmed half of his face. “Sorry, that will take some getting used to.”

She laughed her soft lilting laugh, but her smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. The rise and fall of her chest – Maker, why did she wear such low cut shirts? He stared openly as she breathed, enjoying the undulating motion. Too much longer and he would have to touch, grab, tug, _suck_ …

The wanton fantasy dissipated in a flash. A scar right over her breast bone. It pulled his eyes back to hers. Bright blue pools shown in the fall sunset, brimming with unshed tears, and the scar was forgotten. Worry gripped him like a vice, fear and panic overwhelming him. The ache of loss settled with a too strong familiarity in his chest and he braced himself for the worst.

“When we met last year, I had far too many uncertainties going on in my life,” she began. “I was six months out of a five year relationship. I had just moved into a new apartment. I had also just landed the biggest job of my life. And then you dropped into the middle of it all, constantly reappearing where I least expected it.”

She paused to take a breath, gauging his response. When Cullen said nothing, she continued. “Remember Dale? The lead singer from my band? He was my fiancé. I left him the night he struck me. I thought the band could continue with him in it but that turned out to be false. I had to get a restraining order a month ago and we kicked him out. The show you attended proved we didn’t need him.”

He grasped his hand in hers. “He won’t be a problem?”

She rolled her eyes. “When he slapped me, I knocked out three of his teeth. No, he won’t be a problem.”

“You-you punched him in the mouth?! Why?!” Cullen asked, incredulous.

A nonchalant shrug and she replied, “Instinct. You don’t train as a Muay Thai boxer and don’t learn a couple self-defense techniques along the way. Don’t get me wrong, punching someone dead in the face isn’t a self-defense technique. That’s simply how I reacted to being backhanded.”

Rage, raw and unbridled, coursed through him. Why? What kind of person would hit her like that? The thought sickened him and he pressed her forward. “Please continue.”

She nodded, swallowing thickly, clearly nervous. “So. With having just come out of a long term relationship, moving, and landing a new gig, you’d think anyone would be overwhelmed, right?”

He could hardly imagine handling that much change all at once, but he nodded, letting her continue.

“Before I left Dale, I started feeling ill. Couldn’t figure out what it was for months. Weird symptoms, didn’t sleep well, constantly exhausted. Then, right after I left Dale, I was finally diagnosed,” she trailed off as she looked away from him, eyes brimming with unshed tears again.

“What was it?” he asked.

“Something with my heart and it was pretty serious. At my age, my cardiologist felt a transplant was completely worth it,” she sighed. “So, on the list I went. And I waited. And waited. Waited some more. And then I met you.”

He gripped her hands in his, thumbs rasping over the backs of her fingers. “A night I will not soon forget,” he said with a chuckle.

A disgusted scoff and a roll of her eyes pushed the tears over the edge. “Don’t remind me. I absolutely loathe what happened that night. Cullen, I was dying. I had been on the waiting list for nearly a year by the time we met. With the rate of deterioration in my heart, I had about six months left, and given my lack of luck with a donor, I started preparing myself for my inevitable and untimely death. _That’s_ why I left. There was no way in the Void I was going to make someone I’d just met deal with the imminent death of their partner within a matter of months.”

Selfless. Just as he had been a month prior, not wanting her to see him handling withdrawal. And yet, his withdrawal seemed trivial compared to her ordeal, for when he looked to her again, everything made sense. The scar between her breasts had a purple hue to it, still healing.

“When did you get your transplant?” he asked as he thumbed the top of the scar, peaking out above the low neck of her shirt. The smile bidden by his touch ignited a flame he was forced to resist.

When she spoke, she leaned into him. “Late July. About a month before the show you came to. I’m surprised you didn’t see the scar then, it was damn fresh and I had that ridiculous shirt on,” she said with another roll of her eyes. “Maker, I probably looked like a fool on that stage.”

Cullen laughed as he gave her an appraising look, a single eyebrow quirked questioningly. “Fool is not what I would go with. Maybe seductress? Temptress? Bewitching? Alluring? Pick from those, they’re all completely inadequate compared to the effect you had on me that night.”

The scrunch of her nose was cuter than it had any right to be. “That was … really out of character for me. While I’ve got my quirky stage presence, I’m usually not dry humping my bassist or antagonizing our fans. Ugh, when I look back on it, it’s embarrassing!”

The flush of his cheeks prickled his skin as he recalled her intense act that evening. “I may have been embarrassed at the time, but there is nothing in the world I would trade for the experience. Like I said, it had been the most fun I’d had since we first met. I want to see you perform again, and I’d be sorely disappointed if it didn’t measure up because you wanted to temper your behavior.”

Her smile warmed his heart, thumping away a fierce rhythm in his chest. “But I should warn you. I’m a proponent of payback,” he said, voice rumbling deep in his chest. And as though on cue, the speakers echoed the shuffling of music on his computer. _Need You Tonight_.

Eyes widened ever so slightly and lips parted to gape, he knew the coincidence had not been lost on her. Her chest heaved with a deep breath, that very same motion wildly intoxication. He was leaning into her, so close he could feel the heat of her breath on his lips as she gasped at his touch. The soft cotton of her leggings proved to be a weak barrier as he hands glided up her thighs to her hips, fingertips digging into the fabric.

With a soft tug, he leaned back on the couch, pulling her atop him and she followed easily, all too willing. The weight of her, the press of her shape against the hard angles of his body sent a shiver down his spine. Her hair, her scent, every single fiber of her being consumed him in a heady rush as she settled atop him.

He gazed into the fierce blue flames of her eyes, sparking with a lust he was so eager to sate. And he would have, the pressure building, squeezing painfully against the fabric of his pants. Her rolling hips did nothing to help the matter, only pushing him further.

She paused suddenly, seeming to read his face so well. “What is it?”

Endearing. Her concern for him was a comfort, a luxury he had not experienced in years. His eyes closed as he thought, inhaling deeply, taking in every aspect of her scent. Sea salt. Pine. And something new. Earthy. He couldn’t place it, just as he couldn’t place what had him hesitating with the most incredible woman he had ever met laying atop him.

And then it occurred to him. Why start over if only to go about it the same way as the first time? Slowly, he opened his eyes to find her concerned look again. “Can we … would it be an issue if we … paced ourselves this time?”

Her signature crooked smirk tugged at the right corner of her lips, but she said nothing. With the full weight of her resting on him, she settled her head on his chest, arms tucked in tightly at his waist. She sighed a slow, deep breath, and he felt the tension seep from her, each muscle releasing as she relaxed in his arms.

“I love you, Cullen,” she mumbled.

Oh, the sound of those words on her lips. No music compared. Not even the haunting thrum of _Everything_ playing softly over the speakers. The rise and fall of her head as he breathed hypnotized him, lulling him into the most secure sense of calm he had felt in a decade.

With a gentle squeeze of his embrace, he replied, “I know.”


	34. An Explanation of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mal and Cullen talk about a few things over their first actual dinner together.

The undulating motion of his chest pulled her from a deep slumber, tugging the edges of her subconscious up to that fragile precipice between asleep and awake, and she groaned a long, low sigh in protest. Amallia wanted nothing more than to lay there in his arms, sharing in his warmth as Cullen slept beneath her.

When she shifted, he twitched and muttered, sleep disrupted. She could barely see his face, the darkness of night settled in completely, shrouding the room in shadows, but he had clearly protested something still half asleep. Pale white moonlight filtered in through the large windowed walls before them, angled shafts glowing softly. In that dim glow, she watched as Cullen’s amber eyes snapped open as he gasped.

Wide-eyes bored into hers as she asked, “Are you alright?”

A long, strained sigh pushed past pursed lips and Cullen wiped a hand over his face. When he looked to her again, a soft smile replaced his pained stare, and she couldn’t resist the desire to kiss him, lips so soft and inviting. Had it really happened? Were they together at long last? A simple kiss wouldn’t hurt anything. Just to make sure.

Until that moment, Amallia had been unable to determine the varied parts of Cullen’s distinctly masculine scent. Sure, there was the underlying musk, but the rest? Oak with a hint of sweetness, like a forest right after a storm. Her lips brushed his, teasing, tantalizing, and she inhaled deeply to learn, to _know_ all of him.

Another brief connection, lips barely touching, and Cullen let out an exasperated gasp as he rushed up to meet her. Lips crushed and teeth collided in a greedy click as his tongue dove into her mouth. Moans and whimpers mingled, and she felt his insistent, hungry fingertips biting into the fabric of her pants. As loathe as she was to do it, Amallia pulled back, breaking away before they let themselves slip too far.

A few short gasps heaved from his lungs and when she stared at him in the darkness, Amallia could barely see the hint of an apologetic smile pursing his lips.

“Sorry. I nearly forgot,” he paused with a sigh. “Waking up to you like this, I couldn’t resist the urge.” His grip on her backside eased, one hand reaching up to hook a curl of her hair behind her ear.

She sighed at his touch, gooseflesh breaking out across her shoulders as his fingers caressed the shell of her ear. “Don’t be sorry,” she excused. “I wanted that as much as you. I’m almost regretting our decision to take it slow. _Almost_.”

“I realize it is a bit ridiculous,” he stated as she returned her head to his chest. The steady thump of his heart drummed away in time with his breath as he paused again. Amallia waited, giving him a moment to think, not wanting to pressure him. “But, given our past, it feels like the right thing for us.”

She hummed a sigh of relief, hugging him tightly. “I agree, Cullen. No point in rushing. Now,” she began as she sat up. “Hungry?”

“A bit, yeah,” he sighed, hand absently touching his stomach. “What do you have in mind? It’s late. I’d rather not eat much.”

“I’ll reheat what I grabbed earlier and we can split that. It’s enough food for two meals for me,” she explained. “Spaghetti sound good?”

“I’m not picky,” Cullen said with a quick smile and Amallia returned it in kind.

For a moment, she sat there atop him in the dark, not wanting to move. The thought of getting up seemed wrong, outrageous even. For the first time in years, she was right where she wanted to be. Why would she ruin that?

“Pup?”

His voice, the low, inquisitive rumble, brought her back to reality. Brow furrowed and with a curious grin, she asked, “What did you call me?”

In the darkness she couldn’t tell if he was blushing, but his embarrassed grimace gave him away. “It’s … a term of endearment. Pup. You know. Like a puppy. But, not? I guess,” he stammered, then made such a disgusted sound as he continued. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Say it again,” she demanded, grin furthering and she could only hope that he could see her well enough in the dim moonlight.

Cullen sat up in a rush, the expanse of his chest hard against hers, and his arms wrapped around her waist. He leaned a little further, lips an inch from her ear, his stubble rasping against her cheek, and he whispered.

“Are you alright, pup?”

 _Pup_. It was perfect. So perfectly Cullen. With a deep breath, she steadied herself, maintaining her grip on the more carnal desires she had in mind at that moment. “Couldn’t be better,” she sighed. “But you had better let me up, or we’re never getting off this couch.”

The room pitched as Cullen lay back down, pulling her with him, and she squealed in protest. When her disagreeing pleas to be released subsided, he said, “I wouldn’t mind laying here forever.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Amallia spat as she wrenched from his grip and stood. “Cullen, I love you with all my heart,” she began as she made for the kitchen, “but the gooey, mushy romantics are going to kill me in short order.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.

He laughed with her, full and deep in his chest, and he stood, following her to the kitchen. The sound was infectious and she couldn’t help but laugh further when she saw his face in the kitchen lights. It wasn’t as if she had forgotten. But fully illuminated, she could see his full, open-mouth smile, grinning ear to ear so that his eyes crinkled at their corners, and she could have sworn her heart stopped.

“I’ll make an effort to dial it back, no guarantees, though,” he started only to hesitate when he saw her frozen in the middle of the kitchen, staring at him. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

Amallia blinked, clearing her head with a shake as she stuttered. “No, I … I’m just …” she sighed, so easily flustered by his amber stare. “I can’t believe how lucky I am. My heart transplant. You. Meeting at random, _again_. It’s almost as if—”

“It was meant to be,” they said, voices ringing in unison. She huffed a short laugh through her nose and his smile returned in full. When she said nothing after a moment, Cullen quirked an eyebrow before asking, “Now who’s being the gooey mushy romantic?”

“ _Hey_ ,” she retorted as she opened the fridge. “I’m just returning the gesture,” she said with a smirk and Cullen chuckled with a shake of his head.

With a sudden shake of her head, she went to the refrigerator, opening it and withdrawing her food. “Can we eat in my place? Commander has been alone all day …” she trailed off.

“Sounds great,” Cullen replied as he turned for the door. Amallia followed, food in one hand and shoes gathered up in the other, and together they crossed the hall for her apartment.

Key turned and the door gave way, lights flicking on at the touch of her fingers, the kitchen, dining room, and part of the living room illuminated by the entryway lighting. She tossed her keys in the glass bowl near the door, shoes dropped near the table, and she headed directly for the kitchen.

As she brought up the kitchen lights, a rattling clatter sounded from the far side of the dining room, echoing briefly and followed by the slow, heavy clicks of nails on the wood floor. Commander, grown half again his size since last summer, lumbered up the hallway in no particular hurry, ready for his dinner. Amallia gave him a cursory glance and he paid her no mind, but when the Mabari spotted Cullen on the opposite side of the kitchen, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Hello, again,” Cullen said with a smile as he knelt down and held out a hand.

Commander looked to his mistress with a thoughtful quirk of his brow, as if to ask, _Is that him? The man from the park? The man you left standing all alone?_

“Don’t judge,” she said to the giant dog and he chuffed in response as he crossed the kitchen to greet Cullen. A brief sniff and a head butt to the palm, Commander nudge his way into Cullen’s embrace, turning in and sitting sideways between his legs to lean his shoulder into his chest.

“Well, aren’t you just a ball of fluff. He’s more romantic than you, Mal,” Cullen jested as he scratched Commander’s side from shoulder to hip vigorously.

“He’s useless is what he is,” Amallia retorted and Commander rumbled a groan deep in his chest in protest.

“Oh, no, he’s not, he’s perfect. Right? You’re perfect, Commander,” Cullen cooed as he scratched the Mabari behind the ears. Amallia could hardly contain the little sigh that escaped her lips and she thanked the Maker that Cullen hadn’t heard her. Commander barked happily in response, looking up to her and back to Cullen with a face that was far too pleased.

“Give me a break,” she admonished as she set the container of food on the counter and turned for plates. Cullen watched as he continued scratching her Mabari, who was content to remain leaning against him as long as Cullen cared to scratch.

“What do we do now?” he asked and the sincerity with which he did so stopped her in her tracks. She turned to find a thoughtful, considering look on his face. He looked to her for direction, and Maker help her, she hoped she could find it.

“I … don’t know,” she began as she put a plate of food in the microwave. “Maybe we should go on a date? We’ve yet to successfully that.”

She heard him stand and shuffle into the kitchen behind her, searching the cabinets for something. When he found what he had been searching for – wine glasses – he set two on the counter. Amallia watched Commander as he chuffed once more and made his way for his food dish full of his evening meal.

She turned back to Cullen, finding an impish smirk on his face as he said, “A date, then.”

Her eyes cast about the kitchen, searching for something of which she was unsure. “Now? Here?”

Cullen shrugged. “Why not?” he began as he neared her, arms wrapping around her waist. “We’ve got time. Break out the candles, open a bottle of wine, put on some Brubeck, it’ll be perfect.”

It was such an earnest idea that Amallia could only giggle in response. She knew he was right. It _would_ be perfect.

“How do you know I have any Brubeck at all?” she asked with a sly smirk.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he said, “It was just a suggestion. I could go get my player though, I have most of his—”

“No, you stay _right_ there. Switch these out when it beeps?” she asked as she pointed to the microwave and backed away from him to return to the living room. There, she flipped on the stereo and scrolled through her mp3 player, finding the album _Time Out_. A little _Blue Rondo a La Turk_ to start off a date bode well, she decided, andshe returned to the kitchen to find Cullen opening a bottle of wine.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I took the liberty of raiding your cooler and picked out a pinot.” He set the bottle on the counter, removing the cork from the corkscrew.

Amallia hefted the bottle to consider the label, noting the region and year. “Vint 12. Supposed to be a good year.”

“Weather patterns in Tevinter that year were extremely similar to that of about seven years ago, and _that_ year produced some amazing pinot. The season was harsh so the vines grew hearty and strong to survive. It’s amazing what the weather can do to a grape,” he rattled off but paused in the middle of his thought, sighing with a small smile. “I’m sorry. You know all of that already. You have three bottles.”

“Feel free to lecture me any time, Cullen,” she replied. “I could listen to you talk for hours.”

The microwave beeped for the second time and Amallia frowned, disappointed at the interruption, but quickly removed the plate and mixed it before handing it to Cullen. His small smile, tender and appreciative, hooked the corner of his lips. “You like it when I babble about nonsense?”

“Nonsense, things you’re passionate about, dirty phrases that turn me on,” she said with a coy smirk. “Anything, really. You know that the second I first heard your voice last year, I was hooked.”

“So you’ve said,” he stated as he poured them each a full glass of wine, sliding one towards her. He picked up his and turned to her, his own coy smirk matching her own. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She chuckled a soft laugh through her nose as she took her plate and glass in hand and motioned out of the kitchen with a tilt of her head. “Table? Couch? I’m afraid I don’t have any candles like you suggested.”

He thought a second before saying, “I think the couch would do just fine. Gives me an excuse to sit unnecessarily close while we get to know each other a little better.”

Amallia laughed again, leading the way, crossing the open dining room back to the living room. As she sat down, something prodding at the edge of her mind, something that had been bothering her since the moment she had seen Cullen attempting to enter the building earlier that day, finally manifested itself in a question.

“Why did you move here?”

His fork stopped midway to his mouth and his wide-eyed stare betrayed his shock, the gears of his mind attempting to find a decent explanation. Apparently, he could think of nothing, for he shoved the forkful of noodles into his mouth to give him more time.

Amallia waited patiently, eating as well and hoping that she hadn’t asked the wrong question. When he set his plate aside and cleared his throat, she returned her attention to his and found amber eyes searching hers.

“I work right across the street. The convenience was what really sealed it for me,” he began, speaking slowly, carefully choosing his words. “I can see both of our apartments from my office window. It’s … a big window.”

Just as he had a moment earlier, Amallia froze, food halfway to her mouth. That’s what he had meant earlier. The pool. All summer. And then the pieces fell into place all at once to form the perfect picture. A perfectly _perverted_ picture.

“This is kind of awkward,” she stated. “You spied on me _all_ summer?”

“I – yes, I suppose I did,” he began with a disgusted frown. “I didn’t know it was you. Not that that makes my behavior any better.”

“You’re creeping me out, Cullen,” Amallia stated.

He scoffed, clearly frustrated with himself. “I know, this is terrible. I swear to you; I did not intentionally spy on you. A few times over the summer, I noticed someone on the deck or in the pool. I thought nothing of it. I only just put it together that it was you a few hours ago.”

She watched him carefully, his eyes locked firmly on hers. She felt he was telling the truth, but the worry still prodded at the edge of her mind, lingering.

“Why did you leave your place?” she asked. “I thought you liked it.”

“Are you sure you want the answer?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “You may not like it.”

She nodded, saying nothing and steeling herself for the worst. What reason to move could be so awful?

“I moved because of you, Mal. I—”

“I thought you said you didn’t know it was me,” she interjected.

“Will you stop for just a minute? Maker’s breath, I keep saying the wrong thing and you leap on it like a damn lion trapping its prey.”

She bit her tongue, irritated at his tone and impatient with his inability to explain things clearly.

“That apartment, the building itself. Though it was only a few memories, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to leave. Every time I walked to my apartment door, I’d look at the one across the hall and ask myself what I’d done wrong. And then we’d see each other again at random just when I was starting to feel better, move on.”

He paused, face contorted in a pained frown, recalling the last year. “I can’t imagine what you went through, Mal. With your heart. And then I failed to protect you when it was my singular, fucking job. The _one_ thing I was tasked with, and I couldn’t even do that.”

“Cullen, you didn’t—” she began but his molten amber gaze flicked to hers and she snapped her mouth shut, biting off the words she wanted to say.

“I failed you. But then … _August_ ,” he sighed, face softening. “Everything had changed. I thought it was going to be okay, we could be together. I thought wrong. Who would want to deal with a man going through withdrawal? You came over, I thought you’d been with someone else. Three nights prior, I hadn’t felt so good in months. Seventy-two hours later, and I’d felt the worst I’d felt all year. And I know you felt worse. I put you through that.”

He fell silent once more, and Amallia forced herself to say nothing. He didn’t need excuses. He didn’t need her to fill in the blanks. This was as much for him as it was for her.

“All of that ran through my mind _every_ time I walked into my apartment. So, I moved. I remembered the apartment building across the street from my office. I looked at about fifteen different units before I chose this one. I liked the proximity to work. The pool. The layout. Everything.”

Amallia quirked an eyebrow as she squinted at him and a devious grin spread across her lips. She waited for him to continue, knowing he had one last thing to say, one last thing to admit. It took longer than she had suspected, but he eventually broke under her suspecting stare and he made such a disgusted sound she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Alright, fine, yes, I hoped that maybe the woman across the hall was single and into awkward blond dudes. Is that what you wanted to hear?!”

“I’m just glad you were able to admit you had a teensy ulterior motive behind moving to this particular apartment,” she jested.

“Oh, fine, yes, I’m a creep,” he scoffed as he picked up his food and began eating again. “I would just like to reiterate, though, that I absolutely did not know it was you. I was trying to move on. You know, like I said I wanted to in my letter.”

“I believe you, Cullen. But is it possible that, just maybe, you were hoping it was me across the hall again?” she asked with a smirk.

His own grin returned, scar pulling taught across his upper lip and he shrugged as he said, “Maybe.”


	35. Keeping Him In Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen receives a phone call in the middle of dinner with Amallia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonical changes: since this is a Modern AU somewhat based on Thedas, I took some creative liberties, specifically with Cullen's family. His parents are very much alive, and they all live in Honnleath since the "Fifth Blight" occurred several thousand years ago. Also Mia and Cullen are very close in age, about two years apart. Then there's seven years between himself and Branson, who is two years older than Rosalie.

They continued talking through dinner, Amallia pointing out that, truly, they hardly knew each other and had much to learn. Sharing back and forth, they talked of ambitions and aspirations, food and travel, music and movies.

“Speaking of movies,” Amallia began, taking a drink of wine. “I’m about to wrap on a huge project.”

“Really? A _movie_?” Cullen asked, interest piqued.

“Yeah, we’re nearly fin-” she began but a buzzing sound interrupted her, quickly followed by _A Night in Tunisia_ piping from Cullen’s pocket. He hissed a curse as he dug out his phone, looking at the screen and sighing, exasperated.

“I really have to take this, I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s my sister.”

Just like that, another piece of the puzzle fell neatly into place. “You have a sister?”

“Two,” he replied with a grin as he swiped his thumb across the screen of the phone and brought it up to his ear. “Hello, Mia.”

Amallia listened, the woman’s voice easily audible from the phone once she turned down the volume of her living room speakers.

“Cullen, so wonderful of you to actually answer your phone for once,” Mia’s tinny voice chirped.

He winced, a slight grimace and a nod. “I know, Mia, I’m sorry. I’ve been busy, as you’ve most likely seen on the news.”

“You could have called me at least. Let me know you’re alright. That woman was shot, for Andraste’s sake. Do you know if she’s okay?”

Cullen laughed a nervous laugh as he glanced towards Amallia, her hand clasped over her mouth to keep her laughter from being heard. “I ah … she’s doing just fine, now.”

“Good, that’s good. So, will we have the pleasure of your presence at Harvest dinner in a few weeks?” she asked and it was at that moment Amallia determined Cullen had not seen his family in quite some time.

“I think so. Yeah, sure, I should be there,” he said with a shrug, picking at the cuticle of his thumb absently.

“Cullen, don’t you ‘yeah, sure,’ me. Can’t you just commit to it? Block off the date. It’s a damn holiday,” Mia complained.

He sighed again, flustered. “Alright, Mia, I’ll be there.”

“Mhm. Just you, then?” she asked sounding far too prepared for disappointment and yet, a glimmer of hope hung on the end of her question.

“Yeah, just—” he began but stopped abruptly when he glanced towards Amallia. His mouth gaped, working like a fish out of water to find the right words to say to his sister without offending his quite new girlfriend. Her teeth drew in her bottom lip, brow quirking up towards her hairline as if it to ask, _Your move, Rutherford_.

“Just what?” Mia grumbled in obvious annoyance.

He stuttered once more, pink coloring his cheeks as he ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Mia, please don’t freak out. And don’t tell Ros or Branson or Mom and Dad. I’ll be bringing someone with.”

“What?” Amallia could hear the utter disbelief in Mia’s voice. “Who?! Who is she?! He?! Who?!”

“Mia! I said not to freak out!” he snapped. “And it’s a woman. You … nobody would know her, I met her last year.”

“You’ve been dating her for a year?!” she shouted.

“No, Mia. More like … five hours,” he said as he looked at the screen of his phone. “Look, I’ll explain it a bit more later, I’m kind of busy right now.”

A second of silence, and Amallia knew she had put everything together. “She’s there with you right now, isn’t she?”

Another sigh and he replied, “We were in the middle of dinner at her place. Would you like to speak with her?”

“Do you have to ask?” she scoffed and Cullen turned to hand his phone over to Amallia.

Jaw set and through gritted teeth, he said, “My sister would like to talk with you,” then added, “I’m sorry,” loudly enough that Mia must have heard.

Amallia laughed as she took the phone from him, bringing it to her ear as she said, “Hello?”

“And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” Mia asked politely.

“This is Amallia Trevelyan,” she replied.

“Oh my, you _do_ sound absolutely adorable,” Mia said, giddy with excitement. “Please, convince my brother to come to Harvest dinner. We’ve not seen him since the spring.”

“What?” Amallia gasped, scandalized. “That’s _dreadful_. What kind of brother visits his family once in eight months?” she asked as she smirked at Cullen. His disgusted eye roll, coupled with Mia’s laughter, sent her into her own fit of giggles.

“Mine apparently. It will be lovely to meet you. See you in a couple weeks then?” Mia asked.

“We’ll be there. I promise. Do you need to talk to Cullen yet?”

“No, that’s fine, you just keep him in line for me,” Mia stated with another laugh.

Amallia agreed, sharing goodbyes and then handed the phone back to Cullen. “She sounds like a wonderful sister.”

“She is. She means well. I do miss them very much,” he commented absently as he returned to his food and began to eat.

“Why don’t you visit more often? Are they far away?” Amallia asked.

“Ah, no,” he began, frowning as he wiped his face clean with a napkin. “Not exactly. They’re in Honnleath, where I grew up. Mia and her husband live a few miles from our parents. They’re all ranchers. Ros and Branson live at home yet, they’re still young, early 20s. Mia is the oldest, she’s 34. She met Richard at university and they have a baby boy now, and a two-year-old girl.”

“So you have a nephew that you’ve never met?” Amallia asked, stunned.

“I met him in the spring. That’s why I was there,” he replied, slightly offended. “Look, I know I’m not a very good brother, I joined the military and moved away and I hardly ever visit, but I’m not like, completely absent.”

Amallia nodded. “I understand. At least you have a loving family. All I have is Karris and Dorian,” she explained. “Which is great, don’t get me wrong, I’m fine with that. I love them to death. They are all the family I need or want. My parents were … less than supportive, to say the least. They’re up in Ostwick. We hardly ever visit anymore.”

“I’m … sorry to hear that,” he said after a sip of wine. “My family is only an hour away and I hardly make it out there. It’s ridiculous.”

“Family can be frustrating. I am not unfamiliar with that. But Mia sounds amazing. And I’m excited to meet the rest,” Amallia said between bites of food. “Although,” she began, thought creasing her brow. “Shit. I’ll need to cancel Harvest with Karris and Dorian then.”

“What?” Cullen gasped. “No, absolutely not. They can come with,” he said with a wave of his fork.

It had been many years since the last time Amallia felt truly loved by someone other than her sister and her cousin. Dale had no family to speak of, so their holidays had been the four of them and typically resulted in some sort of argument due to Dale’s alcoholism.

But Cullen was immediately accepting of Amallia’s way of life, inviting the only two people that meant anything to her to join them in _his_  family’s Harvest dinner. Tears welled up, sudden and unbidden. She forced them away as best as she could, but she the tingle of embarrassment crept up her neck and colored her cheeks despite her efforts to keep it at bay.

“Is that bad? You don’t have to come with, you know. If you need time with your family, that’s fine,” Cullen began but she waved him off.

“No, that sounds wonderful. Karris and Dorian will love it. We’ve always lamented about how small our holidays have been and Karris and Dorian keep joking about how easily I could find a date with how many local fans the band has,” she explained, face contorting with disgust at the mere thought. “This will be perfect.”

“Good, I’m glad. We really enjoy added company. When Mia brought Richard along a few years ago, our parents were ridiculously excited. And then they started getting on _my_ case,” he said with another roll of his eyes. “So this will be a _great_ surprise for them.”

“Perfect,” Amallia said with a laugh, cleaning off the last bits off her plate. “I can’t wait.”


	36. Not Investigators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evidence arrives at Cullen's office per Alistair.

_“Do you think you could help?”_

_Alistair’s voice wavered. Nervous? Worried?_

_Scared?_

_“Alistair,” Cullen began, “what help could we provide? We’re a bunch of ex-military personnel, none of us are detectives or investigators.”_

_The scoff on the other end of the line may as well have been a shout. “Look, I just spoke with the chief of police there and the case is growing cold. They have no leads. As governor, I’m simply stepping in and contracting out the investigation to a third party.”_

_Cullen ran a hand through his hair; a distinct sense of loyalty welled in his chest. Not only was it an opportunity to catch the man that shot Amallia in an attempt to kill Alistair, but his friend had come to him for assistance. How could he refuse?_

_“Alright, Alistair, we’ll do it. Have the department send us everything they’ve got,” Cullen said._

_“Ooooh, that’s been taken care of already. You should see it all by the end of the week.”_

Cullen came to a halt in the threshold to his office, stunned. Boxes piled two and three high covered the floor between his desk and the far window to the right. With a slow stalk, he approached the nearest stack, finding them marked with a series of identifying numbers.

Alistair’s words echoed in his head, the memory of speaking with him over the phone earlier that week springing to the forefront of his mind. Cullen had anticipated a few small boxes, two or three at the most.

Not _twelve_.

But there they were, taking up half of his office. He rounded his desk, finding a folder atop it. In it was a document listing the same numbers on each box and what they contained. Photographs, film, medical records, eye witness interviews of which there were _six_ boxes, video recordings, audio recordings, and more.

He punched a button on his desk phone, ringing Lysette. “Yes, Mr. Rutherford?”

“Can you send up Ashara, Delrin, Krem, and Raleigh for me, please? I … need a hand,” he explained.

“Is everything alright, sir?” she asked.

“Ah,” he began, “Yes, everything’s fine. Just need some help with a bunch of boxes …” he trailed off.

“I can get maintenance—”

“No, Lysette, the boxes will remain in my office. I need those four to help me sort through it all,” he clarified.

“Alright, I’ll send them up,” she agreed and he punched the button again, ending the call.

A mountain of work lay before him. Sorting through it would take weeks, let alone any analysis they would eventually do. And what of said analysis? Like he told Alistair earlier that week, none of them were investigators. What did he think they would find? Maybe it had just been a desperate plea for help. Had he taken action to feel as though he were doing something to move the investigation along.

 _Or_ Alistair knew something Cullen did not.

The thought vanished as the elevator bell rang and his four employees entered his office. Each of them in turn stared at the pile of boxes as they edged into the room, shifting to make space. Standing in deafening silence, they looked from the boxes to their chief, then back, raised brows and mouths agape until Raleigh spoke.

“Sir?”

Cullen looked to his employee and fellow soldier, amused. “Raleigh, since when do you call me ‘sir’?”

“Since you dragged us into your office to stare at a bunch of boxes … Sir,” he replied. “What’s in them?”

Cullen moved forward and tore the tape from the nearest box, withdrawing a heavy folder. “Evidence.”

“The shooting?” Ashara asked.

He flipped open the folder, skimming its contents. “Give the smart lady a prize,” he quipped as he turned to face them. “Yes, the shooting. Each of these boxes contains every shred of evidence the police collected.”

Delrin scowled, brow furrowed in a knot. “Is there a reason we have it?” he asked as he approached the opened box and lifted another heavy folder from it. “We’re not investigators by any means of the word.”

“Also correct, Delrin. Governor Theirin asked that we do our own investigation,” Cullen extrapolated. “These are all duplicates, photocopies and scans of the originals. Alistair had it sent here earlier this week.”

“Why are we doing our own investigation,” Krem asked. “Is there a problem at the precinct?”

There it was again. That nagging worry, gnawing at the edge of his consciousness. “I’m not sure, Krem. Alistair informed me that the case had nearly gone cold, the police had no leads. But why? How? There is a Maker damned mountain of evidence here. How could they have _nothing_?”


	37. National Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in Denerim

Alistair sat in his chair at his desk, eyes glued to the monitor of his computer, poring over a spread sheet that made less sense the longer he stared. Baffled so, when Anora entered his office, he didn’t acknowledge her. The document on the screen had his full attention. Transactions across many accounts confused him to no end. Math so bad _had_ to be intentional. It had to be.

A fresh citrus scent filled his nostrils and the air shifted, pressed in on him, suffocating. Over his right shoulder, Anora hovered, staring at the screen with him. With a clumsy click, he switched to his desktop, a picture of himself with Amodisia, Cullen, and Amallia from the food shelf event last March, captured by a hasty selfie. Anora gave him a sidelong look, an eyebrow quirked up.

“Don’t give me that look, Anora, my mother is long buried,” he chided.

She laughed as she pushed up from his desk and seated herself across from him. “Strung a little tight there, Governor?”

“Yes, I _am_ , in fact, would you mind rubbing my shoulders, I seem to have a terrible knot right about here,” he said with a smirk as he pointed to his back.

Anora laughed once more, rolling her eyes. “Charming, as ever, Alistair. I’m afraid your regular tactics won’t work on me,” she bantered.

“Ah, thought it couldn’t hurt to try. What do you have there?” he asked as he spotted the item in her hands.

She placed the thumb drive on his desk, leaving it closer to her. “Information that you’ve been digging for,” she explained.

And what did she know of what he sought? Attempting the look of a curious boy, Alistair scrunched his nose and played innocent. “What digging?”

If ever there were a competition for annoyed faces, Anora would easily take the prize. Flat stare coupled with the thin line of her pursed lips, brooking no nonsense. “I know you’re trying to figure out who shot at you, Alistair. I’m not dumb.”

“Dumb?!” he asked, aghast, then feigned offense. “I never suggested such a thing.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I guess you won’t be needing this then.” Swift fingers snatched up the memory stick as she stood and made for the door.

The opportunity for allies in a precarious situation was slipping out of his hands. Was it worth the risk?

“Wait.”

An eyebrow rose towards her hairline as she turned back, considering him over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“What’s on it?” he asked with a nod to her hand.

“Oh, let’s call it … ‘national security’,” she replied as she returned to her seat.

What could she know of what happened that day? Anora was no different a politician than himself; she had access to the same exact data he did and nothing more.

Unless he had missed something.

He held out his hand, a silent demand for the usb drive.

She had the gall to look shocked. “I want you to promise me, Alistair, that this stays between us. It does not leave this room.”

He matched her earlier scowl, serious, insistent. “Agreed, Anora. I swear it on mine own head,” he replied.

Anora returned the drive to the desk, sliding it across to him as she stood once more. Before she could speak, the door to Alistair’s office burst open as Loghain stomped in.

“Do you mind?” he growled, glaring at Alistair.

Anora’s eyes flicked down to the USB drive then looked up to Alistair. Casually, Alistair stood and leaned over his desk, a hand covering the device.

“Loghain. A pleasure,” he drawled. “Might I ask what you’re referring to?”

Loghain eyed his daughter before responding, and Alistair noted a hint of nervousness in the man. Something was bothering him, and if Loghain let even a brief glimpse of that show, there was no telling the rage that roiled beneath his almost calm exterior.

“May I speak to the Governor in private, my dear?” he asked, calm and cool. Not a single trace of the nerves Alistair had seen a second earlier remained.

“Absolutely, Da,” she replied with a quick kiss to his cheek and left the room.

Loghain rounded on Alistair as the door shut behind Anora, rage still in check. “Get out of that document.”

Alistair looked to his desktop as he returned to his seat. With as much stealth as he could muster, he slipped the USB drive from his desk, leaving it in his fist hidden beneath the surface. “Is there … _something_ in that document I shouldn’t see, Mr. Mac Tir?”

Loghain scoffed with a roll of his eyes as he made for the door. “Don’t be such a prat, Alistair, I just need to get in it and you’ve got it locked,” he replied with a dismissive laugh as he exited, slamming the door behind him.

“Sure,” Alistair grumbled to himself as he closed the spreadsheet. With the distractions gone, Alistair clicked the USB into his desktop and began sifting through its contents.


	38. Of What Goes On In Mal's Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days apart and neither of them can keep it in their pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!

Hours later and well into the night, Ashara was the only one of the team left with him. They had barely managed to empty the first box, cataloging and organizing the evidence within it. While the box had been labeled, most of its contents didn’t match the description on the original document. And all of the evidence had been poorly copied or analyzed improperly. Cullen feared the rest of the boxes would prove to be the same.

With a sigh, he stretched and looked to the woman across the table. “You should go home, Ash, it’s late. I can finish up from here,” Cullen suggested as he shuffled papers aside.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “We’re nearly done with this box. I can stick around.”

He waved off the idea. “I’ll get it done. Go on home, get some rest. We’ll get back to it on Monday. I’ll reassign details to other agents so the four of you are freed up for the … foreseeable future.”

She stood with a short laugh, shrugging on her coat as she rounded the table. With a hand on his shoulder, she gave him a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll find the bastard. Don’t worry.” Her smile was heart felt, he knew, and it bolstered his confidence.

“Thanks, Ash. Have a good night.”

The door clicked shut behind her with a soft _snict_ and Cullen turned back to the table littered with papers. A deep sigh dragged from his lungs, overwhelmed with the amount of work they had ahead of them. When his cell phone rang, he startled, so focused on the monumental task before him.

From his pocket he withdrew his phone, _Spin_ playing until he swiped the screen with his thumb. “Hello, pup.”

“Mr. Rutherford, I’m surprised you’ve actually answered you phone during business hours,” Amallia jested. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Cullen groaned an apologetic sigh. “I’m so sorry, Mal. I know it’s late, but all the evidence on the shooting arrived today and we started on it immediately,” he explained. “I’ve got to finish up this first box yet, and then I have to shuffle our details around for our existing clients. Ash, Krem, Delrin, and Raleigh are going to be out of the field for a while.”

He heard the disappointed sigh she failed to hide. “So I’m guessing I won’t get to see you tonight?” she asked.

“Not until late, it’ll be several hours yet,” he explained as he scanned the table covered in paper. “I’m so sorry.”

Another sigh, though this one was much different. No, there was not a trace of disappointment left in her voice as she asked, “Talk to me a bit? I miss you.”

Cullen leaned back in his chair, stretching with his free hand reaching behind his head. “Of course. I miss you, too. I feel like I haven’t seen you in days.”

“Three days,” she stated. “We haven’t seen each other in three days. And it’s Friday. I was hoping we could go out, maybe do a little karaoke or something.”

Friday. The week had slipped through his fingers like water through a sieve. Had he not just spoke with Alistair yesterday? No, he thought. That had been nearly five days ago.

“Can I make it up to you tomorrow night?” he asked with another frustrated sigh. He had no intentions of neglecting Amallia. If he had a say in the matter, one of them would have already sold their apartment. But Amallia had insisted they stick to his agreement and living any closer than they already did would only exacerbate the issue.

“You could make it up to me now,” she replied.

“I can’t leave, Mal, I—”

She laughed her lilting laugh and he could picture the coy smirk on her lips. “No, love. Over the phone. Just … talk to me.”

For a moment, Cullen thought she was attempting to be cute, simply wanting to hear him ramble on about his day. But the tone of her voice suggested something else. Something different.

 _Much_ different.

“You want me to ... talk to you,” he repeated, voice deep and husky.

Amallia hummed her approval. “Please?” she asked.

No. She _begged_. The ache in her voice was palpable even over the phone. A breathless whisper was all she managed and he heard a soft gasp escape her lips.

“Are you …” he paused, changing his tactic. “Mal, are you misbehaving?”

“Maybe,” she replied.

“Are you touching yourself without me?”

Another moan set his heart to racing. It took all of his willpower not to leave the building and race across the street. When she replied, Cullen held his breath in anticipation.

“I’m so wet, Cullen. Help me.”

_Oh, sweet Maker._

His own groaning sigh dragged from his chest as Amallia continued to moan on the other end of the line. “Yes, Mal, I’ll help you,” he began as he unbuttoned his shirt. “But, you have to help me, too. Hearing you moan while you pleasure yourself has me … _very_ aroused.”

“Oh?” she replied, curiosity piqued. “I’d love to help you. I want to hear you moan for me while you stroke your cock.”

Andraste’s tits, that was one way of putting it. And yet, the vulgarity with which she spoke had the heavy length of his full erection twitching, every word boiling the blood in his veins. He hardly knew what to say, making it up as he went along, fingers splaying against his abs with an absent hand. “You want me to jerk off with you?”

She hummed a brief laugh before responding. “Please, Cullen. Touch yourself for me. Wrap your fingers around your thick cock and thrust into your hand.”

Maker, but she had a way with words. With a flick of his fingers, his pants were undone and he reached into his briefs, withdrawing his swollen length. Fingers drew along the shaft and up to the head, teasing the tip. A deep moan filled the room as he listened to Amallia and her softer sighs, the lascivious sounds of her arousal audible over the phone.

“I’ve got my cock in my hand, Mal,” he murmured. “Maker, but I want to fuck you. I want to bury it deep inside you, thrust it into you as you scream my name.”

“Oh fuck, Cullen, yes,” she moaned, a whimpering sigh. “I want to feel you inside me, spreading me, _claiming_ me.”

Growling deep in his chest, he pumped his erection, faster and harder as his arousal crept ever skyward. Precome gathered at the tip and he spread it along his length with long strokes, imagining it was her arousal, her _heat_. “Mal,” he whimpered. “I can’t wait to feel you again, hot and wet wrapped around me as I pound you, as I _bend_ you over the bed and take you. You’re _mine_.”

Cullen thought he had gone too far, unsure of her level of comfort. But the thought vanished in a second when her whimpering moans returned, staccato breath reminding him of a distant memory. Her tastes, her flesh hot on his, sweat and arousal mingling as they shared each other’s bodies that night so long ago. The little whimpering breaths she heaved were a perfect echo. She was close. _Very_ close.

And he wasn’t far behind. “Tell me, Mal. Do you have a toy or do you use your fingers when you imagine me fucking you?”

“I … ah, a toy,” she sighed. “I love it. I love fucking myself with it. It’s thick, like you.”

The image of her lying on her back in her bed, thrusting into her wet heat unraveled him in seconds. “I’m so fucking close, I want to hear you come for me.”

Nonsense fell from her lips and Cullen listened as he thrust into his hand, furious strokes that had him gasping for air.

“Oh, Cullen, I’m going to come, keep talking.”

He stopped for only a second, spitting into his hand, then returning it to his flesh. “Do you hear that?” he asked, pumping his length harder, the slapping of skin filling the room. “Can you hear me stroking my cock? I can see you when I close my eyes, pumping that dildo into your wet pussy.”

Her gasping moan seized in her throat, then burst from her lips as she cried out her orgasm, singing his name to the heavens. The sound of her pleasure shoved him over the edge and his orgasm exploded bright behind lids screwed shut. White hot spurts of his seed shot up his bare chest in stringy ropes, clinging to his skin as his cock throbbed and Cullen groaned. Grunting sighs followed every spasm and each stroke released another burst of his fluids, flinging across his skin until he was spent.

Releasing himself Cullen sighed a deep moan of pleasure into the phone, mingling with Amallia’s approval.

“Cullen, that was …” she began with a breathless sigh, “… incredibly _dirty_. I loved it. Your voice, the way you talk to me …”

He chuckled a short laugh through his nose. “And you, my dear, are exquisite music to my ears. All your moans and little sighs and squeals of pleasure. But, now I’m a complete mess,” he scoffed, looking down to his chest.

“Oh?” she asked, an inquisitive and sultry hint to her voice. “How messy is it?”

A soft moan fell from his lips as he ran the tip of a finger through the runnels of his fluids. “There’s so much, Mal. On my chest, my stomach. I wish you were here to lick it up for me. But, I guess I’ll just …”

He brought his finger to his mouth, lips sealing around the tip. He knew she heard the wet, lascivious sounds he made as he sucked his seed from his finger, for she moaned a long, low groan.

“And how do you taste, love?” she asked.

“Salty, to be honest. With a bitter aftertaste. Not unpleasant. But different. I’m not sure what made me even think to try it,” he described with a quick laugh.

“I would like to see you do that. I don’t know how much longer we’ll hold out on this agreement,” she said, sounding defeated. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t have to take care of myself.”

 _Maker’s breath_. “Every day?” he asked, astonished.

“Sometimes more than once,” Amallia replied. “You … have no idea what goes on in my head.”

Cullen leaned back for his desk, grabbing the box of tissues and began to clean himself. “Oh, I … think I have a pretty good idea, if it’s anything remotely close to what goes on in mine.”

Gone was her usual lilting mirth, replaced by a loud, full belly laugh. “Okay,” she chuckled. “Maybe you do know. But, we can leave that for another night. Together.”

With the mess of his climax cleaned, shirt righted, and pants redone, Cullen stretched out with a groan. “Yes, you probably need sleep.”

“See you tomorrow?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Good night, Cullen.”

“Good night, Amallia.”


	39. Playing Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay kids, settle down now.

“How long?”

He glared across his desk at the men seated there. Wide eyed, terrified. On edge. Mistakes had been made and he was determined to find out who was responsible.

“Two weeks, sir,” the young man replied.

 _That fucking bastard_. 

Loghain looked to the window of his office. Pale sunlight glinted off the frame and bare trees in the courtyard of the campus office shivered in the fall breeze.

“It will take them at least another two weeks to sort through it all,” the second young man explained. Dare he attempt to assuage him of his fears?

“We ensured the process would be time consuming.”

“What you should have _ensured_ ,” Loghain said as he stood, leaning over his desk, “was for that evidence to never see the light of day. What am I paying you for?”

The first man spoke again, a scowl furrowing his brow. “What were supposed to do, sir? Governor Theirin himself called the Chief and ordered copies to be sent to Mr. Rutherford’s office. We did our best, given the situation.”

Oh sure, he thought. Now the young lad had a pair.

“Get out,” he growled.

“What about—”

“GET. OUT.”

The two young men scrambled from their chairs and made for the door, slamming it behind them in their haste.

Disastrous. He should have paid professionals when he’d had the chance. But, now the situation was in his hands and he would have to make the best of it. Soon. He had a month before that overpriced rent-a-cop figured it all out. Less than a month, if the rat bastard governor provided any assistance.

He withdrew his phone from his pocket, quickly dialing and bringing it to his ear. When the line picked up, Loghain spoke immediately.

“Get back here as soon as you can. We have a problem.”

* * *

 

“How is the investigation going?”

Alistair had not heard her enter. Anora stood before his desk, a small stack of papers in her hands held against her hip. Sighing, he sat back in his chair, hands gesturing helplessly.

“I’m not sure,” he began. “I haven’t spoken with Cullen since I handed the evidence over a couple weeks ago. There’s so much going on here that I hardly have five minutes to myself.”

She took a seat in one of the chairs across from him, setting her papers on the edge of his desk. With a nervous look over her shoulder, she leaned in to ask quietly, “Did you get a chance to look at what I gave you?”

The thumb drive. An absent finger brushed along its edge in his pocket, curious. “I did,” he began. “I’m not sure what to make of it. A lot of finances that don’t tie out, most accounts out of balance.”

He trailed off, thought unfinished as Loghain entered his office unannounced. His sudden presence and their topic of discussion had to be a coincidence but Alistair refused to let the hunch go. Loghain’s behavior, the document from the week before, and then Anora’s financial data.

But, Loghain? Anora’s family had been nothing but supportive of his governance. And he and Anora worked together so well. The thought was preposterous but Alistair couldn’t shake the feeling. He only hoped that Anora wasn’t involved.

“One of the accounts made payments to a company you should look into,” she suggested with a whisper as she stood in a rush and gathered her papers. Turning on her heel, she rushed by her father with a quick smile and shut the door behind her.

“Loghain,” Alistair greeted with a bright smile. “What can I do for you?”

“Care to explain why you’ve contracted the investigation of your attempted assassination to a third party?” he asked as he sat down.

 _Care to explain how you found out about that, Loghain?_ He desperately wanted to ask the question but he bit his tongue, erring on the side of caution. He would keep up appearances, maintain pleasantries and the guise that he wanted nothing more than to work together to solve the case.

“The police had made little to no progress in the five months since the shooting,” Alistair huffed with a wave of his hand. “So, I took the liberty of finding another resource. And I happen to know a person that has those particular resources.”

Loghain stared from across Alistair’s desk, his face blank, unreadable. No reaction to his words was to be found on there, and even less could be divined from his response.

“Excellent,” he said as he stood. “Keep me abreast of what they find. I want to ensure nothing like this occurs again. And I want justice; the shooter will pay for what he did. Tell me, do you know the woman who saved your life?”

Alistair took pride in the fact that he had learned to school his expression, much like Loghain did. With pursed lips and a nod of his head, Alistair stamped down the urge to punch the man dead in the face.

“I do,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug.

“Is she well? There was no report of her after she was rushed to the hospital. Your friend saved her life, too, no?”

 _Keep your cool, Theirin. He’s just playing nice_.

“That he did. And yes, she is fine, has a nice scar on her bicep now, she’ll brag about that for months,” Alistair replied with a chuckle.

“Wonderful,” Loghain stated a little too flatly as he turned. “Let me know if you need any assistance with the investigation. I want this whole thing taken care of as soon as possible.”

He didn’t wait for a response, immediately heading for the door. Alistair sat in silence a moment before he stood in a rush, leaving his office on a whim.


	40. Harvest Dinner, 1st Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Amallia take the fastback out to the Rutherford homestead in Honnleath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, fair warning, there are quite a few head canons here. Cullen's parents are alive, never left Honnleath since "the Blight" was something that happened two thousand years ago. And the ages of Cullen's siblings are a bit different.

“Remind me why we are taking your car again?” Amallia asked as she shut the passenger door.

“Because,” Cullen started as he took the driver’s seat, shutting the heavy metal door with an echoing slam. “It’s sixty degrees outside, it’s perfect weather.”

Amallia scoffed. “But the gas,” she stated. “Won’t this be expensive?”

The car roared to life, engine deep and throaty, a mean growl that blared through the garage. “So? I keep saying I want to drive you some place in it. Why not to meet my family?”

“Just seems impractical,” she replied. “Karris, Dorian, and Commander could come with us if we took the Wrex.”

Cullen sighed. “I’m aware, but just let me have this. Please? I know you’ve been dying to do this,” he said as he backed out of the parking space.

“I’ve been dying to _drive_ it. Amongst other things,” she muttered with a smirk. “It’s fine, really, I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“Your dress is giving me a hard time,” Cullen jested and Amallia laughed as they exited the garage and headed for the highway. She’d worn that dress on purpose, he knew, given the warm weather. But meeting his family, she’d mentioned not wanting to wear anything too revealing. Apparently, a little leg never hurt anyone though, so the hem stopped above the knee, flowing about in a loose skirt and fitted at the waist. Sleeveless, a high neck line, and a long narrow tear drop opening finished off the red ensemble.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she retorted as she shifted, uncrossing and crossing her legs suggestively. Cullen gripped the steering wheel harder, knuckles whitening in an effort to concentrate on the road ahead and Amallia laughed once more.

Within minutes they were on the highway, passing the city limits and traversing the hills of the Fereldan countryside. It was mere miles before most signs of civilizations ceased to exist, giving way to sprawling fields of farms, ranches, and even the occasional vineyard.

The minutes ticked by, slipping away like sand between their fingers. The first signs of autumn dotted the landscape as they sped along, soft yellows and reds and oranges mixed among the lingering green of trees holding on to summer. With each mile, Cullen’s nerves crept ever skyward, the various scenarios of the impending dinner playing out in his mind. Eventually, his concerns – as outlandish as they were – got the better of him and he turned the radio down to speak.

“I have to talk to you before we get there,” he began, too ominous and Amallia caught the dread in his voice.

“Oh,” she replied. “Is there some weird thing I should know about your family? Are they a bunch of hillbillies? Perverts? Murderers?”

“Ha. Ha,” he retorted, sarcasm punctuating each laugh. “No, they’re not weird. We’re pretty boring, honestly. But, I want to prepare you for how they may … approach you.”

“I realize I’m not exactly the most normal looking person, Cullen, people give me shit often for my general appearance and demeanor,” she replied.

“No, not that. Ros is going to love your hair, it’s her favorite color,” he continued. “She’ll probably pepper you with all sorts of questions. Your hair, and your makeup, and your dress, and your jewelry, and your shoes …”

Amallia nodded along with him. “So really, they’re just going to bombard me with all sorts of silly questions to get to know me, right?”

“Eh,” he said with a shrug. “More or less. Mia might give you a harder time. And for the love of Andraste, _do not_ be in a room alone with Branson, he _will_ try to steal you from me.”

She laughed despite just how serious he was. “So they are a little perverted!”

“No! Branson does it just to be a dick to me,” he grumbled. “It’s his way of proving he can get any girl, ever, including the ones I bring home. And one of them _left me_ because she thought he was serious!”

“So?” Amallia huffed, “Don’t worry, your brother is like, what, 23? Yeah, no thanks.”

Cullen chuckled. “You may change your mind once you meet him, he’s … admittedly charming.”

“Does he look like you?”

He grimaced again. “Well, yeah, he’s my brother.”

“Hrm,” she hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll keep my guard up.”

“Oh, thanks. I love you, too,” he retorted with a smirk. “Put that guard up now, we’re here,” he stated as he turned down the gravel driveway towards a large farm house.

“ _This_ is where you grew up?” she asked.

“Yeah, I told you, the whole family is farmers. Ranchers really. Horses and buffalo. And a small army of dogs,” he pointed towards the barn, indicating a pack of six dogs running towards the car.

“Are you some sort of cowboy and never told me?” she asked, then gasped suddenly. “Oh Maker, please tell me you have a hat!”

His groan of annoyance sounded far more irritated than he’d intended, but she laughed anyway. “I do,” he said. “But I left it here, with a lot of other things.”

“Parents holding on to it?” she asked as they pulled up to the house next to an old Ford pickup truck.

“Yeah, it’s all in my old room,” he said with an absent wave of his hand toward the house. With an appraising eyebrow creeping up to his hairline, he looked to her and asked, “Ready?”

“Cullen. Relax. It’ll be fine,” she said as the warmth of her hand met his shoulder and it was as if she could drain every ounce of his worry from him. With her signature smile, the one she seemed to reserve only for him, she reassured him, then exited the car.

Cullen followed Amallia up the steps of the porch as the door to the house flung wide to reveal his sister, blue wrap dress tied tightly about her waist and long blond curls tumbling about her shoulders.

“Cullen, are you sure you don’t have a fraternal twin?” Amallia mumbled to him before Mia neared.

“Positive,” he said with a chuckle and Amallia stepped forward, apparently still stunned by Mia’s uncanny likeness to her younger brother.

“Amallia,” Mia said as she wrapped her up in a close, tight hug, and Cullen swore he heard her squeak as Mia squeezed, nearly picking her up. “So wonderful to finally meet you. I’ll need Cullen to go in first, let them know we’re having extra guests. Give him a minute?”

Amallia nodded as Cullen stepped past her and entered the house, heading towards the sounds of merriment from the living room. As he rounded the familiar corner, hand taking the frame of the threshold and leaning in like he always had, he waited for Branson and Rosalie to acknowledge him.

Their heads were buried together in front of a cell phone, watching a video that had them crying with fits of laughter. When they continued to ignore him, Cullen cleared his throat loudly to gain their attention.

Rosalie looked up, eyes widening to the size of saucers and her mouth fell open in disbelief. “Cullen!”

A flurry of arms and blond curls flew off the chair and nearly tackled him to the floor, both Branson and Rosalie hugging him tightly.

“When did you get here?” Branson asked backing away and at that moment Cullen noticed his little brother was not so little anymore and Rosalie was no longer his little sister but a beautiful young woman. He sighed with a smile as he considered them, shaking his head after a moment.

“Sorry. Just drove out,” he explained. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“In the kitchen, they’re arguing about how much food Richard and Mia have made,” Rosalie explained. “We had no idea you were coming.”

“That’s because I told Mia _not_ to tell you,” he said. “Now, get Mom and Dad for me. Richard, too. Where’s …”

“Cuwwen!” As if on cue, his niece shouted as she came running around the corner, feet pounding across the wooden floors, racing her to crash into his legs.

“Hannah, my baby girl!” he exclaimed as he picked her up and held her in one arm. “How are you?”

She hugged him tightly around the neck and pecked his check. “I’m good. Mama made allllll the food.”

“Did you help?” Cullen asked.

“I helped, and Nana and Papa helped, too,” she said as she pointed at his parents rounding the corner from the kitchen, beckoned by the voices in the living room.

“I thought I heard you!” Amy Rutherford exclaimed as she reached out to hug him and he acquiesced, shifting Hannah to his other arm, her back to the hallway, and holding out his cheek. His mother kissed him as his father, Tomas, followed with a firm handshake and half a hug.

“So good to see you, my boy,” his father said with a soft smile and ruffling Cullen’s hair. “Although, I hardly recognize you with that hair.”

“Thanks, Da,” he replied as a grinning Richard entered the room from the kitchen with baby Michael in his arms. It was then that Cullen realized his entire family – Richard, Hannah, and Michael included – all looked quite the same and Amallia might feel drastically out of place amongst the blond brood.

He glanced past Hannah to find Mia and Amallia in the entry way. His sister gave him a glare, as if to suggest he get on with the introduction. When he turned back to his family, they awaited expectantly. Clearing his throat and shifting Hannah in his arms – Maker, she was growing like a weed – Cullen began to speak.

“I am so glad that everyone is here. I know my presence is quite a surprise. I asked that Mia keep it this way a few weeks ago when she called me,” he began.

“Why? Is something wrong?” Rosalie asked.

He chuckled a deep rumble in his chest as he pulled his sister close, relishing in the outpouring of love and warmth from his family. He motioned them all further into the living room, away from the threshold.

“Nothing is wrong, Ros,” he replied. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Come in, Mal.”

The sharp click of her heels preceded her entrance. Grinning from ear to ear, Cullen’s heart soared as Amallia passed through the entry, closely followed by Mia.

Cullen gestured as best as he could, arms so full. “Everyone, this is Amallia Trevelyan. My girlfriend.”

For a moment, Cullen thought they hadn’t heard him and may have even missed Amallia entering the room. But a quick assessment of their faces showed they were all very much aware of her presence, each one of them gaping at her, including little Hannah who could barely comprehend what was going on.

Or so he thought. Hannah leaned into his ear and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. “Cuwwen, you have a Mama now?”

“What?” he asked as Rosalie left his other arm in a rush and met Amallia head-on in a fierce hug and Branson was quick to follow.

“Like my Da and Mama. You have a Mama, now,” she pointed at Mia and Richard. Cullen didn’t know how to respond without offending Amallia in front of his whole family.

“Maybe someday sweetheart. For now,” Mia began as she reached over and took her daughter from Cullen’s arms. “She’s a very important friend of Cullen’s.”

“But you love her, Cuwwen? Like Da loves Mama?” she asked with a frown, lower lip pouting, confused.

Leave it to the two-year-old to put him on the spot. “Yes, I do, Hannah,” he said as he wrapped his arm about Amallia’s waist and Rosalie and Branson parted from her. “I love Amallia very much.”

Hannah smiled brightly, figuring it out for herself. “Okay, then I love her, too,” she declared as she reached out, arms stretching towards Amallia.

Laughter filled the room as Mia attempted to contain her daughter and Cullen reached out to hold her again. But Amallia, swift as ever, was between them in a flash and had Hannah in her arms before anyone could object. “That is very sweet of you to say. And what is your name?”

“Hannah,” she replied as Amallia made her way to the kitchen, Rosalie, Branson, Richard, and Mia in tow.

His mother wrapped an arm behind Cullen’s waist, pulling him closely without a word. His father, however, cleared his throat before speaking. “Cullen, is this –”

“Da, I have never been so sure of anything in my entire life.”


	41. Harvest Dinner, 2nd Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner gets started.

Gravel crunched, announcing the arrival of additional guests. The stark white of Karris’ Tesla approached the farmhouse, rolling to a stop next to Cullen’s fastback. Commander burst from the back of the car as Karris opened the door and Amallia watched from the living room. The giant dog bolted directly for the small pack of mixed ranching breeds, Mabari and collies and labs, each of them sorting out their new pack mate and determining the new hierarchy. Commander, in unfamiliar territory, quickly submitted, lying down and showing his belly until the other dogs were satisfied.

Cullen took that as his cue to explain to his parents that Amallia’s sister and cousin would be joining them for dinner.

“Oh, that’s wonderful! We’re always happy to have more guests,” his mother replied, but her excitement turned to concern in the blink of an eye. She turned to Amallia and asked, “But what about your family, dear?”

She wanted to say all the reasons why they were there in Honnleath and not in some overstuffed beach-front villa near the Amaranthine, why she nor her sister nor her cousin hardly talked to anyone in their family, not even their parents, and why she would be far happier with the Rutherford’s for Harvest though she hardly knew them. But she stamped down the thoughts and the anger and reminded herself to be grateful.

 _Tis the season,_ she thought, teeth grinding before she spoke.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rutherford, but it’s not an issue. Would you like help setting the table?” she suggested, changing the subject as she gestured to the dining room.

Her smile rivaled the sun. Maker, but the woman was breathtakingly beautiful. And the moment Amallia had entered their home, Cullen’s mother had welcomed her in as if she were one of her own. Rare was the family setting where Amallia felt at ease, at peace, but there she was, offering to help without her father suggesting it or her mother complaining first.

“That would be lovely of you, Amallia. And please, Amy is just fine, dear, no need for formalities,” she replied as she led them to the kitchen, a soft hand at the small of her back.

With the table set, Amallia returned to the living room to find Karris and Dorian, greeted with smiles and hugs as Cullen introduced his family once more before heading to the kitchen for drinks. Amallia noted a particular gleam in Branson’s eye that she’d not seen there before. It dawned on her then that her sister and Cullen’s brother were nearly the same age.

A round, card table had been opened in the living room, table cloth and dinner sets added to accommodate Amallia, her sister, and Dorian. As the three of them took seats around the table, Cullen returned from the kitchen and his eyes grew wide with excitement as he spotted them.

His giddy grin was still plastered to his face when he sat beside Amallia, looking to each of them in turn. When she could stand it no longer, she asked, “What’s so funny?”

He gestured to the table, the four of them seated around it before he spoke.

“Kid’s table.” A proud nod of his head followed, as if the declaration was of the utmost import.

If she hadn’t seen his mouth move, Amallia would not have believed it. Like a badge of pride, Cullen sat straight, posture impeccable, as if he were at the head of a grand table. Unable to control her laughter – no thanks to Karris’ fit of a giggles and Dorian’s ridiculous cackling – tears streamed down her face, much to Cullen’s confusion.

His posture hunched, then, cheeks coloring with embarrassment. “What? Don’t you remember the kids table?” he asked.

“I _do_ ,” Amallia insisted through her gasping hysterics. “ _Too_ well.”

“Mal,” Karris taunted with another fit of giggles. “Look, it’s a—”

“Don’t!” Amallia insisted and Cullen looked slightly concerned as Karris pointed to Amallia’s tall water glass. “I’m not picking it up!” she hissed, sitting on her hands.

“Oh, I’ll get you,” Karris insisted with a confident nod of her head and a waggle of her brow. “Just wait.”

“Sure,” Amallia retorted, lacking a better retaliation. When Mia stood at the large table in the dining room, the chatter subsided, and she spoke.

“I am so pleased everyone could make it, family old _and_ new,” she began with a nod towards their table.

“Here, here,” Cullen said raising his glass in kind, each of them following suit and taking a sip.

“We are so grateful for everything; the wonderful food, our good health, and wonderful company. Here’s to a very special Harvest dinner, full of new beginnings,” she thanked and an echo followed. Amallia raised her glass as well, taking another swallow but not before she noticed something about Mia, something about the way she carried herself, an absent hand cradling her stomach and naught but a water glass at her place setting.

As the family began to pass dishes, Amallia leaned over to Cullen to whisper in his ear. “Your sister is pregnant.”

A furrowed brow scrutinized from across the room, then surprise quirked at an eyebrow. “I believe you’re right. She sure is taking after our parents,” he commented.

“Is it the four of you, Cullen?” Karris asked from across the table as Richard walked a platter of pheasant to the table. Cullen took the plate from him as he replied.

“Yes, Mia is the oldest by about a year and a half. Branson and Rosalie are quite a bit younger than Mia and I,” he explained.

“It’s just Karris and I,” Amallia added.

“And what does that make me, then?” Dorian asked, feigning offense.

“A moocher,” Karris retorted and Amallia laughed as Dorian considered that for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

When Cullen’s laughter faded, he managed to ask, “Karris, what do you do for work?”

She took the plate of pheasant from him and stabbed a couple chunks with the fork. “I’m a psychiatrist. I did social work for about ten years before I started my practice.”

“That is commendable work, I must say,” Cullen replied, impressed. “Where did you attend university?”

“Antiva. They had an impressive program.”

Cullen nodded as he took the bowl of mashed potatoes from Dorian. “I considered Orlais temporarily, but I was convinced to stay closer to home. I went to Honnleath Community for a few years. Then I transferred to Calenhad for my last year of undergrad,” he explained.

“Oh,” Karris chirped with a surprised look as she took the bowl from Cullen. “Mal, I thought you went there with Sia?”

“I did, but I finished early and moved to Orlais for my grad program,” Amallia explained, taking the bowl from her sister. “We missed each other by about six months. Speaking of which, Cullen, I’ve only just realized never asked. What did you study?”

“Criminal Justice.”

“But you didn’t go into police work?” Karris asked.

Cullen shook his head, taking more food from Dorian as he passed it. “I did not. I joined the military.”

His flat tone brought the conversation to a grinding halt. She wondered if he was aware of the things that set off the memories, that glazed, far-off look in his eyes breaking her heart. Dilated pupils and shaking hands, something grasped his full attention, tearing him away from the dinner table. He stared through her, as though she were transparent, not seeing her at all.

“Cullen?” Amallia muttered as she laid her hand atop his. His eyes flicked up to hers, focus returning as a knowing look settled in, and he frowned, mouthing a silent apology to her. Beneath the table, she slipped her foot out of a heel and touched her toes to his calf. As ridiculous as her attempt to comfort him felt, it worked; his smile returned in full, mind no longer in the grip of terror.

“How is the firm doing, Dorian?” Karris asked and Amallia thanked the Maker for her ability to read a situation.

Dorian spoke between bites of food. “Dreadfully swamped. It’s grand that we have the business, but I’m one of two architects, and we have enough work for five.”

“Anything exciting?” Amallia asked.

With a secretive grin, Dorian gave her a sidelong look. “There  _is_ a rather interesting project that I’m starting next week …”


	42. Harvest Dinner, 3rd Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah passes out in Cullen's arms.

Dinner continued much the same way, Cullen, Karris, and Dorian conversing the most. A cranky Michael was put to bed within the hour and Hannah soon followed, falling asleep in Cullen’s lap. When Richard offered to take her, Cullen refused, insisting he put her to bed himself.

Amallia followed, curious. Upstairs, the two bedrooms that, she assumed, had belonged to Cullen and Mia as children had been outfitted to accommodate Mia’s children, her husband, and herself while they visited. Cullen entered his old room, laying Hannah down on the small twin bed after Amallia pulled back the sheets, covering her with a gentle smoothing of the sheets. With his niece tucked in, Amallia stepped back as Cullen kissed the little girl’s forehead, brushing her hair from her face before whispering, “Goodnight, Hannah.”

It wasn’t as though Amallia thought he’d be bad with children. And yet, he seemed to know exactly what to do, from the moment she had seen him holding his niece when she had entered the Rutherford’s home, to entertaining her all through dinner, and finally, holding her close as her limp little arms wrapped around his neck while she succumbed to her exhaustion.

She sniffed, pulling back whatever tears may have welled up at the sight. It had been enough to grab Cullen’s attention and his head whipped around, thousand-watt grin gleaming with pride. Fading, the smile melted away, replaced by a frown and Amallia felt the wet rush of tears on her cheeks. Maker damn the ridiculous emotions he brought out in her. He was worse than any cheesy romantic movie, or book, or song. No, Cullen Rutherford was far more than that, in so many ways it overwhelmed her.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close.

She wiped at her face, scoffing with disgust. “I’m fine. I’m not quite sure why that happened.”

There was his grin again. He wore it with ease, an unbarred willingness. It returned in a second and he glanced once more at Hannah in his old bed, turned over and curled up. “Oh, I think I may have an idea.”

Silence stretched until Amallia grew too uncomfortable with the questions plaguing her mind. “Cullen, I know you—”

“Hush, pup. We can talk about it another day. It’s not important, now,” he interjected.

“How do you even know what I was going to say?” she asked as she grinned into his chest, head coming to rest on his shoulder as he pulled her in tighter.

“It’s obvious I want children. But we’ve only been together a few weeks. Let’s give this a shot for a few _years_ before we have that discussion,” he said with a soft laugh.

“Do you think I don’t want them?” she asked with a quaver in her voice.

When he said nothing for a moment, Amallia looked up to find his stern amber stare, no trace of humor remaining. “I think you do. Eventually. And right now, that’s enough for me.”

She hugged him tighter, arms sliding up to wrap behind his neck and she pressed her cheek to his. “I love you, Cullen.”

“And I you, pup,” he replied, a hand slipping into her hair to hold her close. They stood there for a moment, silent in each other’s embrace. Little else compared to that feeling of closeness, not just in body, but in mind and spirit as well. In a fog of bliss, standing there in his child hood room, her eyes drifted, taking in the memories he had experienced. His desk, small and cleared of any clutter that may have covered it once. Trophies, some athletics and some academics. Shelves laden with books surrounded the bed, ranging from non-fiction and history to science fiction and fantasy. She continued to stare, a dreamy haze clouding her thoughts as she gathered in his childhood when she spotted it.

There, hanging on the wall beside the closet, was a black hat. The edges were faded and worn, frayed and curled from years of sun and sweat, and a desire to hold it itched at her fingertips.

She must have made a sound, a little hitch of her breath, for Cullen asked, “You found it.”

It was not a question, and although she knew he was serious, she giggled through her nose, a tight-lipped laugh as she regarded him. “I did.”

His half-frown, half-smile spread across his lips. He stepped back from her, towards the closet as he asked, “Would you like me to put it on?”

He read her like an open book. Her thoughts must have been so obvious, he had but to look at her to know. In an effort to contain her excitement, Amallia covered her mouth with one hand lest she awake Hannah as she nodded. Then Cullen crossed the room, plucking the hat from its hook and placing it on his head, fingers pinching the brim to pull it snug. When he turned around, Amallia couldn’t believe her eyes. The man she had known for well over a year had transformed from a clean-cut business man into a rough country boy.

The deep chuckle that burst from her lips might have awoken poor Hannah had it not been for her hand clamped over her mouth. “Oh, that’s not right. It’s not even fair,” she whispered

Brow furrowed, Cullen frowned. “That bad?”

“You should bring it back with you,” she whispered, careful not to disturb his niece as she crossed the room. Back in his arms, she brought her lips to his ear and said, “You could wear it for me. _Only_  the hat.”

A crimson blush colored his cheeks. “I … _just_ the hat?” he choked.

Amallia buried her face in his shoulder, another giggle muffled by his shirt. “Sometimes your innocence baffles me,” she murmured with a shake of her head as she removed his hat. With a sigh, she said, “I suppose we should get back downstairs. Before a search party comes looking …”

Cullen nodded in agreement as he took the hat from her, gesturing to the doorway and Amallia acquiesced, heading for the stairs.


	43. Harvest Dinner, 4th Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen gets a little too drunk at the end of Harvest Dinner and Amallia takes them home.

Sweet and smooth, the whiskey mixture was the perfect end to a perfect evening. Amallia sat next to Cullen, sipping from her glass of water; given the hour and their drive back, she’d offered to remain sober so Cullen could enjoy one more drink.

And then one more had turned into three, the hours passing so quickly Cullen thought they had entered some sort of time warp. Karris and Dorian left, taking Commander with them. Tomas and Amy cleaned up the kitchen while Mia, Richard, Branson, and Rosalie conversed with Amallia. She took their questions and witty banter with ease, answering them without hesitation and joking as though she had known them for years.

Something about the way she handled his family with such skill ignited such a fire in his belly, Cullen couldn’t ignore it. Beneath the table, his fingers slipped to the hem of her dress, slowly gliding up along the inside of her thigh all the way to her core.

No response. Not even a stutter in her response to Mia’s question about the scar on her left bicep.

“Cullen!”

He snatched his hand away as if burned. Maker, had he been caught? When he looked at his sister, her smile seemed out of place for having just caught her younger brother feeling up his girlfriend in front of the entire family.

“Sorry?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?!” Mia demanded.

He looked to Amallia, unsure of what his sister spoke. “What were we talking about?”

“The shooting?! This is the woman you saved?!” Mia hissed, voice kept low.

He sighed with relief, Amallia’s knowing giggle drawing a smirk across his lips.

“I … didn’t think it was relevant?” he asked with a shrug, words slurring slightly.

“Oh, my, he’s drunk. That’s enough,” Mia said as she swiped his glass off the table.

“Yes, I am drunk,” Cullen admitted with a nod and a grin. “We should probably go home.”

“We should,” Amallia agreed as she stood. “Commander is by himself. He’ll need to be let out.”

The room titled as Cullen stood. Maker, he had not meant to drink quite so much. Especially not tonight in front of his whole family. And Amallia. He had other things on his mind that evening, _things_ they would do once they returned home.

“Okay, Mr. Rutherford, time to go,” Amallia admonished when the room continued to spin and she grasped his arm to lead him to the door. His family followed, saying their goodbyes and insisting they visit again for First Day in two months. He heard Amallia assure them they would be seeing much more of their brother quite regularly.

An hour passed in a dark blur, punctuated by the golden lamplights passing by on the highway. Fading between sleep and awake, he returned to full consciousness, warm and soft and _naked_. Maker, his _pants_ were missing. All of his clothes had been removed. He flicked open an eye to find the familiar surroundings of his room in his apartment, Amallia sitting next to him on his bed, woefully dressed and above the sheets.

“Whatteryou doing?” he asked.

“Putting you to bed,” she explained as she handed him a glass of water and a few aspirin. “Drink the whole glass. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

With the pills and water down, Cullen set the glass on the night stand. Had he fallen asleep in the car? One second, he had been hugging Mia goodbye, the next, he was in his bed.

“How did you get my clothes off?” he mumbled.

Giggling, she cupped the side of his face. “Gently. I was very careful.”

“Why are you still dressed then?” he slurred further and the urge to grasp her, to feel her, took over. Clumsy fingers that would hardly obey his muscles pried at her wrist. She barely resisted, falling forward as he pulled her atop him and he cursed the sheets between their bodies.

“Stay,” he insisted.

“If I stay, will you go to sleep?” she asked.

“No, why would I want to sleep if you’re here?” he retorted.

Her lilting laughter cut off abruptly, his lips meeting hers in a rush, and she tasted like wine and pumpkin pie and sin all mixed together, a flavor he wanted to devour. Parted, he whispered, asking once more. “Please stay?”

“Only if you promise to go to sleep,” she replied.

He groaned, rolling his hips against her body flush with his. “I want you.”

Her own frustrated sigh gave her away. “I know, Cullen. And I want you. But we promised each other. And you’re so drunk, there’s no way—”

“Fine,” he snapped and released her, almost shoving her away.

“Cullen, don’t get mad, please. I’ll stay, I’ll sleep right next to you. But we are not having sex and you wouldn’t be upset if you weren’t so blighted drunk,” she retorted as she stood.

“It was a dumb decision,” he continued. “We should have never made such a stupid promise.”

The furrow of her brow served only to annoy him, her icy glare chastising him without words. “Please, stop. I’m going to leave if you keep talking like that.”

“Leave then, I don’t care,” he pouted and immediately regretted the entire conversation from the moment he had awoken in bed. It had been several months since he had seen Amallia cry in pain, the sting of his words piercing deeply. No level of intoxication was an excuse for his behavior and he had hurt her. Again. She scoffed when he took too long to say anything, then stood from the bed and turned on her heel to leave.

“Mal, wait.”

At the door to his room she stopped, but didn’t turn to look at him. “What?”

The whip-like lash of her tone stung, and he imagined his had felt the same. “I’m sorry. Please, don’t go.”

With a sidelong look, she pursed her lips in a sad smile. “I appreciate the apology. But, I don’t think I want to stay. Not while you’re unable to think clearly.”

He could think clearly enough to understand her reasoning, at least. “Good night, pup.”

“Good night, Cullen.”


	44. Spiritual Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen awakes the next morning after Harvest Dinner from withdrawal pains. Amallia to the rescue!

Too hot, sticky and sweaty, Cullen threw the covers from his slickened body as the oppressive fabric threatened to suffocate him. Soft rays of early morning sunshine filled the room and he grimaced in pain, the dim shafts far too bright. The dull ache behind his eyes was no hangover; if he didn’t do anything soon, the clutches of withdrawal would grip him in short order.

Rolling from the bed took all of his willpower and shuffling from the night stand, to the dresser, to the bathroom, and finally to the kitchen proved useless. Where was his phone? And his blighted wallet? He had no idea where any of his things were, including his clothes, and he could hardly recall where he had put anything the night before. Struggling to remember as he stumbled back to his bedroom, he shook his head as if to clear the fog of pain from his mind. And then, he remembered. Knees buckled and hands shot forward to catch himself as he cried out in shame.

“Oh, Maker, no, not again,” he gasped and in a fit of rage he slammed his fist on the floor. How could he have been so careless? Drinking to excess and then treating the woman he loved like someone to be used? The acidic taste of vomit surged to the back of his throat and he groaned at the wave of nausea inundating him.

He dove for the dresser, pulling open a drawer and dragging out a pair of underwear. The Maker damned room would not stop spinning while he balanced on each foot as he stepped into his boxers, pitching and rolling relentlessly. Fucking liquor. He was an adult, a man grown. Not some lecherous creep that abused his girlfriend. And yet …

Cullen stumbled to the front door of his apartment, struggling to ignore the badgering questions in his mind. He wrenched it open and stomped the three steps across the hall to Amallia’s door. He wanted to knock, but his fist merely thumped once on the wood, pain wracking his entire body. He tried once more, knocking again, but only a single thump rang like a struck bell between his ears.

No footsteps, no turn of the knob, nothing announced her arrival. She simply replaced the door, clad in a pale pink satin robe, loosely tied about her waist and falling from one shoulder. Her dark hair fell about her face in light wisps, most contained in a high bun.

“Andraste’s flaming sword, Cullen, are you okay?” she gasped, fingers of a hand flying to her lips in shock. Unable to remain upright any longer, Cullen collapsed into her arms, and he thanked the Maker, and Andraste, and whatever other gods that may or may not exist that she caught him in her blessedly powerful arms.

“Maker, you’re on fire,” she hissed as she wrapped one arm over her shoulders. Together, they stumbled down the hall to her room where she laid him on her bed. She left him there, his legs dangling off the side and toes skimming the cool wood floor. Every muscle in his body screamed in pain, knees drawing up to his chest as he rolled to his side with a groaning sigh.

Amallia returned with her arms full. When she spotted him curled up in pain, she cried out with a pitiful sound, and Cullen cursed as he pressed his face into the mattress. He needed to apologize to her, talk to her with a clear head, but even the thought of speaking cracked a whip of pain across the base of his head stronger than ever.

“Oh, sweetheart, get under the coves, you need to sweat this out,” Amallia sighed as she shut off the fan above. Cullen struggled to his hands and knees, crawling to the head of her unmade bed and grasping at the sheets. The sudden touch of her hands lanced ice through his entire body, racing to his toes and fingers. The momentary relief allowed him the chance to clamor beneath the covers and he pulled them up to his chin to silence his chattering teeth.

“Here,” Amallia stated as she handed him a full glass of water and several pills.

“What is it?”

“Anti-inflammatory. Just trying to get your fever down, you’re so hot,” she murmured with the back of her hand to his cheek.

Despite the pain coursing through every nerve in his body, Cullen couldn’t help but smirk. “Hot?”

Amallia glared at him as she placed a cool towel on his forehead. “You’re terrible. Sicker than a dog and still making jokes.”

“You said it, not me,” he grunted as he tilted his head to see her. Her smile – _that_ smile, the one she seemed to reserve for him – spread across her lips, and her hand never left his cheek. How lucky he felt, blessed by the Maker, to have this woman in his life. He collapsed at her door and she took him in without question, even after he had treated her so poorly the night before.

He didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve her. His smile faded, whether from the fresh wave of pain or the thought of the things he had said to her, he was not sure. And yet, she still smiled, an outpouring of love he had never known.

He had to say something. It was going to burst out of his chest if he didn’t apologize, at least. But when he went to speak, Amallia placed her fingers on his lips, silencing him.

“I know, Cullen. Trust me, it stung last night in the moment, but I’m over it. You were drunk. That’s why I didn’t stick around. Not just for my sake, but for yours.”

When he tried to sit up, the blinding pain forced him right back down and he groaned through gritted teeth. “But, I need to say it,” he managed. “I’m sorry, Amallia. I swear, I will never treat you like that ever again. You have my word.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she jested as she climbed onto the bed and slipped beneath the covers. His arm wrapped around her shoulder and her head nestled onto his chest. “Maferath’s _balls_ , your heart is racing.”

“That’s …” he paused, thinking. “That’s not normal.”

“No shit, it’s not normal, you sound like you’ve just sprinted around the block three times.”

A chuckle was interrupted by another grunt of pain. “No, I mean, normal for withdrawal.”

“Then why is your heart about to leap out of your chest?” she asked as she looked up to him.

Cullen pulled the cloth from his forehead, having grown warm. His stare returned hers, drowning in the depths of her icy blue eyes. “You do realize we’ve—” he cut off with a grunt, “we’ve not been in a bed together in over a year now, right? We’re nearly naked, curled up together. Might have something to do with my racing heart.”

She failed to respond for a moment, and Cullen saw the gears working in her head. “So even though you’re in the grip of terrible withdrawal symptoms,” she began, words chosen with care, “You’re aroused?”

Laughter would have been the proper response if he’d been able to do it, but the second his stomach flexed, pain anew washed over him and his mirth died in his throat. His arm squeezed as he clung to Amallia, pulling her flush to his body as her head returned to his chest. It seemed the only comfort he would be afforded in such a state, so he may as well take every bit available.

“Aroused isn’t exactly how I’d put it,” he stated. “Excited. Nervous. Scared. I’m terrified, really. You’ve seen me like this a few times now. How long before you tire of it? How long before you decide you no longer want anything to do with a man who struggles with recovery?”

“Never.”

The way she curled into him, an arm over his chest and a leg entwined with his, felt … right. _Normal_. _Like we should always be this way_. Her fingers soothed him, caressing him from shoulder to hip in tender strokes. His own fingers found the curve of her spine, smooth lines drawn over the fabric of her robe. For a brief second, he wished she had taken it off. And then the migraine hammered home between his eyes clenched shut. When every muscle tensed, he felt the weight of her head leave his chest and one eye peaked open to see her staring with dreadful concern.

“I’m going to go make tea and some soup. It might not help, but I’m not sure what else to do,” she explained with a frown.

He cupped her cheek, thumb rasping over her soft skin. “You’ve already done plenty, pup. But tea and soup sound _wonderful_.”

Another soft smile creased her lips as she slipped from the sheets, ensuring he stayed covered. The migraine thrummed again, his eyes squeezing shut only to see white hot pain. And then, as quickly as it started, the pain ebbed to a dull ache as her lips, full and soft, found his in a tender kiss. Far too soon, she parted from him, fingers leaving his cheek cold and lips aching for more.

With another smile, she headed for the kitchen, and Cullen listened, attempting to distract himself from the pain wracking his body. Before long, Amallia was singing softly to herself, and he could just make out the words. Something about arms. And home. It was the last thing he remembered before he fell asleep, imagining the feel of her wrapped in his embrace.


	45. Gooey, Mushy, Romantic Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rough morning, Amallia takes care of Cullen as he suffers another bout of withdrawal. Again, lacking any plot that would move the story along …

The salty scent of soup and the sweet berry aroma of black tea filled his nose, rousing him from sleep. Cullen opened one eye and saw Amallia leaning over a tray, smiling as the cool touch of her hand met his forehead.

“Hm. Seems like the fever is breaking already. Maybe this was just a little episode?”

He groaned as he rolled to his back and sat up, Amallia placing the tray over his lap. Two steaming bowls of chicken dumpling soup and two large mugs of tea sat on the tray before him, waiting. Cullen picked up the mug nearest him and breathed in the fruity blend, then sipped. Though hot, it was a welcomed taste, burning away the disgusting flavor withdrawal always seemed to stick on his tongue.

He hummed his approval, taking another careful sip and smiled to Amallia. “This is delicious. What is it?”

She cradled a bowl of soup, stirring it as she kept a careful eye on him. “Blackberry Sage. I swear by it. Keeps the sinuses clear,” she replied, then spooned a dumpling into her mouth. “How duh you feel?” she asked through her food.

“Surprisingly okay,” he mumbled as he set down his mug and picked up the other bowl. “Might have headed off a full blown episode with good timing.” Memories of the visions that seemed to plague him whenever he closed his eyes returned, carrying off his thoughts. “The dreams, though … Maker, I don’t know if those will ever stop.”

“Maybe you could talk to Karris? I mean, I know you have a therapist, but my sister has some new methods of therapy that are working quiet well for her patients.”

She never ceased to amaze him; her willingness to help, to see him through his anxiety and withdrawal felt surreal. Impossible, even. Her selflessness knew no bounds. And though she had witnessed another bout of his withdrawal, it did not seem to matter to her in the least, still loving him without reservation.

How lucky could one man be?

The words fell from his lips without second thought. “I love you.”

Another smile, _that_ smile, so small and delicate, pursed her lips. She set her bowl down as she considered him, picking up her mug. And then she spoke with the most sickeningly sweet voice he had ever hear.

“Aw, I love you too, schmoops.”

He scoffed in disgust, tongue sticking out as if tasting something sour. “Really? Schmoops?”

“Well, you call me ‘pup’ all the time. I figured I could give you an embarrassing pet name, too,” she explained with a toothy grin.

“But _schmoops_? That’s … terrible,” he grimaced.

Amallia giggled a girlish sound that annoyed him even further. After sipping from her mug, she returned it to the tray and said, “It’s from a t.v. show. We’ll watch it together sometime. Besides, you think schmoops is bad? Dorian _still_ calls me ‘Lala’ to this day.”

Cullen laughed, humor shifting to pain as his stomach seized. Elbows pinned to his ribs and the bowl shook in tremulous hands. Amallia attempted to help, reaching for the bowl, but he steadied, regaining control and holding it firm to his chest.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Didn’t realize making you laugh would cause so much pain.”

He shook his head, insistent that she not worry. “You didn’t know. Besides, it was worth it,” he said with a smirk. “Lala.”

“Oh, shut up and eat,” she retorted as she stood and stomped for the bathroom, black robe billowing out behind her.

And he complied, spooning a chunk of chicken into his mouth. Smooth, but not creamy, the perfect consistency between too thick and too thin. The flavors danced on his tongue, not the typical bland saltiness of your average soup. It had a bite to it, a spice, sharp and fresh that balanced out the doughy dumplings and plump chicken perfectly. Through his food, he hummed his approval, hefting another chunk on his spoon.

“Mal, this is great, where did you get it?”

Brow furrowed, she folded her arms beneath her breasts as her she turned back to look at him from the bathroom door. “I made it.”

“What?” he asked swallowing. “How? There’s no way you made this in an hour.

She shook her head with a dismissive frown. “They’re left overs. From about three days ago. I made a batch in the slow cooker last time. It reheats well, no?”

“It’s perfect,” he muttered as he took another bite. “Thanks for sharing.”

“Thank you for eating,” she quipped as she turned back into the bathroom. “I’m hopping in the shower, be a few minutes.”

Cullen opened his mouth to reply but the squeak of the shower handle preceded the rush of running water. He knew she wouldn’t be able to hear him over it, so he returned to his soup, finishing it. With a full stomach and feeling the best he had all morning, he lay back in her bed, finally able to enjoy the wonderful scent of her surrounding him. So fresh and light, like a rainfall in the forest on the turbulent shores of Lake Calenhad, she consumed him as he drifted off to sleep once more.


	46. Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans for furthering the investigation are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two clarifications are required:
> 
> 1.) Cullen and Amallia live in Redcliffe. I’ve known this for a really long time, but trying to bring that up as a declaration this late in the story seemed awkward so I let it come up organically, on its own in the chapter below.
> 
> 2.) The security firm for which Cullen is COO is called Red International Securities. REDIS (Reed-is) for short. Once I get the prologue fleshed out and posted, it’ll make sense, although the characters involved there are only casual mentions. But the name has finally come up – again, organically, on its own in the chapter below.

“ _Mr. Rutherford_ ,” Alistair drawled, pinning the handset of his desk phone between his head and shoulder. “How _are_ you this lovely November afternoon?”

A distinct Fereldan grunt preceded his response. “Up to my eyeballs in your ridiculous case,” Cullen’s tinny voice spat over the phone.

Alistair scoffed a disapproving harrumph as he propped his feet up on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Cullen, it can’t be that bad. They organized all of it for you. Couldn’t be hard to figure out their system …”

“Sure, if there had _been_ a system. Truly, Alistair, it looks like they just threw a bunch of shit in a slew of boxes and sent it to us,” Cullen explained, gruff tone growing harsher with each word. “A month. It took us a fucking _month_ just to sort through all of the evidence. There was loads of extra documents that had nothing to do with the case, and anything that did pertain to it was scattered across all twelve boxes.”

“But you’ve got it all sorted now?” Alistair pressed.

An annoyed scoff sounded through the phone and it was then that Alistair began to worry he had pushed his friend too far. Maker, if REDIS had made no more progress than the Redcliffe Police, the entire case would go sideways, ending in a puff of smoke.

 But Cullen replied, confident. “Absolutely. It’s all sorted. But you should fire those two detectives. If they keep any of their cases organized like this, they don’t deserve to be officers,” he snapped.

A stretch of silence wedged between them, Alistair’s thoughts coming to a screeching halt. His brow pulled into a furrowing scowl as he sat up in his chair, feet stomping to the floor. A singular thought managed its way to the forefront of his mind, something he had yet to consider, but it was such a ridiculous notion – and Maker, how paranoid of him?

“Alistair?”

The rumble of Cullen’s voice reeled in his wandering mind. “Sorry,” he began. “I’m … distracted. Lots going on here in the governor’s office.”

It was his turn to hang in suspense, but Cullen did not leave him there as long. “What kind of things?”

Secrets, official and unofficial alike, ached to pour from his mouth; the weight of it all had grown unbearable, hunching his shoulders and panting a permanent frown on his lips. But none of it was safe – _or legal –_ to divulge over the phone. In person, they ran little risk of eavesdropping. The governor’s office? For all he knew, the lines had been tapped, twice, once at his insistence and again by _another’s_. Then again, that sounded like the same paranoid voice that seemed to call out to him from the furthest recesses of his mind of late, like a siren beckoning him to his untimely demise.

“We can talk more about it in person,” he started, “I’ll be in Redcliffe in two days. I’d like to help. And Sia will be with. Got any plans for the weekend?”

“Er …” he stuttered with a sigh and Alistair worried he pushed too far. A moment passed before Cullen continued, sounding more than a little perturbed. “It’s Amallia’s birthday. We were going to go to dinner.”

“Ooooh,” Alistair sang, unable to resist the opportunity to tease, “and do you have any _other_ plans besides dinner?”

For another second that lasted far too long, Cullen was silent. When he spoke, confusion colored his tone. “No … we’re … going to dinner and then a concert,” he explained.

“I see,” Alistair continued, grinning as he pressed onward. “And you don’t think you’ll need time alone afterwards?”

That had done it. With an annoyed growl, Cullen spoke. “Alistair, I am _not_ talking about this with you,” he snapped.

“I’m just joking,” Alistair said through a laugh. “Sort of. Can’t help but wonder.”

As much as he enjoyed ribbing Cullen, he felt bad for the man. It wasn’t his fault. If anyone’s, it was Alistair’s, avoiding the truth like the Blight. But the mere thought of admitting that truth to anyone – let alone Cullen – was terrifying, and given his position as governor and the case before them, neither of them were in any position to act.

Cullen’s response came in an unsteady murmur, not unkind or angry, but with a genuine hint of curiosity. “Wonder about what?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, what might have been,” Alistair prodded once more and Cullen scoffed again, pushed to annoyance. “Ah, forget it, I’ll bug you about it later. Maybe we can join you for Mal’s birthday? I bet we can find tickets for the show, too.”

Cullen cleared his throat, and Alistair thought he sounded somewhat flustered. “Uh, sure. That would … Mal would enjoy that.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

Once more, silence stretched on, uncomfortable, and for the third time in mere minutes, Alistair worried he had upset his friend.

“Alistair, I would love to see you and Sia again.”

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Cullen assuaged his fears. “Great. We miss the both of you as well. See you in a couple days?”

“Yes,” Cullen replied. “Just call me when you get in, I can send Ash to the airport to pick you up. Where are you staying?”

A pen flicked through Alistair’s fingers as he thought. “I believe they put us up in the Calendhad Resort, but it’s … not my style.”

Cullen’s laugh lightened his heart a considerable degree. “Understood. I think we could find more … suitable accommodations for your tastes. I’ll talk with Mal.”

“Perfect. And Cullen?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks,” Alistair stuttered. “For everything.”

Cullen’s signature chuckle, awkward as ever, sounded through the receiver and Alistair grinned a smile the likes of which he’d not felt in months.

“For you, Alistair, anything.”


	47. A Lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia and Cullen go over the remaining evidence that seems worthy of further analysis.

“Do you _have_ to drool like that?”

A soft whine emanated from Commander, eyebrows perking up as he looked to Amallia, head in her lap. As if apologizing for his unfortunate habit, he chuffed with a click of his teeth and removed his head from her leg, revealing a damp spot on her leggings. And then an ear twitched, the left listening towards the door, a sound she could never hear. His head soon followed, attention grasped by whatever he had heard, and without warning, the giant Mabari tore off for the hallway, a growl rumbling deep in his chest.

Curious, Amallia followed, her hearing not as keen as Commander’s. She stood from her piano bench, hanging up her headphones and tossing her pencil on the music stand. Down the hall and around the corner, she found the Mabari a blur of slate grey and white. Gruff grunts and huffs coupled with the clicking of toenails on the hard wood floor as Commander paced impatiently before the door. When Amallia neared, she heard a distinct thud from across the hall, not more than five feet away.

“Commander, relax,” she admonished as she opened the door. “You know who it is.”

Commander slowed, then sat, waiting with rewnewed patience as Amallia opened the door and revealed the man beyond. When she gave the word, the Mabari darted across the hall and skidded to halt beside Cullen’s hip. Loving as ever, he knelt down to embrace the dog in a close hug, scratching him along his ribs.

“Yes, I missed you too, Comman-Derp,” he cooed, vigorous scratches shaking the monstrous animal as Commander’s tongue lolled from his mouth. With a wide grin, the Mabari looked over his shoulder at his mistress as if to suggest she join them.

With a shake of her head, Amallia watched her dog betray his loyalty to her. Then she spotted two large file boxes on the floor behind Cullen near his door.

“Something going on?” she asked, gesturing behind him. Commander, knowing their attention would no longer be his, loped back to her apartment, surely making for his bed in her room as he turned the corner for the hallway.

He grunted as he stood, a frustrated sound to be sure. “Yes. Let me get these put away and we’ll chat,” he explained as he opened the door, letting it swing wide, and picked up a box.

Amallia moved to the other box, picking it up and following him into his apartment as her own door shut behind her.  “Is there a problem?”

He led her to his office, the same room that, in her apartment, housed her studio. She set the box down beside the one Cullen had carried on the long table and waited for him to speak.

“Everything’s fine, except for this mess of an investigation,” he sighed as he rolled his desk chair to the table and taking a seat. “These two boxes contain copies of everything we determined might be important.”

She sat next to him in a folding chair and lifted the lid on the box nearest her. “Didn’t Ali send this over weeks ago?”

“Beginning of October, ye—wait, what did you just say?”

Amallia looked up to Cullen, finding an annoyed scowl on his face. Amber eyes squinted, suspicion clear as day. “I asked you when you received the investigation files,” she repeated with a shrug. “Is that bad?”

“No, that is _not_ what you said. You asked me if ‘Ali’ sent them,” he said, voice gruff and clipped.

 _Jealousy?_ No. That was not possible. Not Cullen. Of all people, she never imagined him to be the jealous type. “I’ve always called him that. He’s my friend. Well, we were friends. A while ago.”

That seemed to calm him some, but the slight squint to his eye remained. “They’re going to be in town over the weekend.”

“Oh? What brings them around?” she asked.

“ _Ali_ has a state council meeting,” he explained and Amallia feigned a smile at his mocking use of Alistair’s nickname. “And Sia is speaking at a lawyer’s conference. They would like to stay with us. They’re not very fond of the Calenhad Resort. Too fancy, or so claims _Ali._ ”

“C’mon,” she whined as she shoved his chair away, only for him to return, pushing closer until their legs entwined. Cullen leaned in, strong hands grasping her thighs for leverage.

“I’ll stop when you do,” he prodded and Amallia felt the warmth of his hands creep up her thighs, thumbs nearing her center. Maker, but the hunger in his eyes was palpable, amber gaze molten, burning bright.

The longing in that smoldering look ignited her own arousal, and swift as a cat, Amallia was in his lap, straddling his hips.

“Does it bother you when I call him that?” she asked, a slight writhe in her hips as she leaned in close. Her fingers sought his neck, slipping into his hair, tips rubbing small circles into his scalp.

A frustrated grunt fell from his lips and his hands roamed over her hips to grasp her backside. The sting of biting fingertips pulled a grunt of her own from her chest, and she gripped his hair at the back of his head in anticipation. She inhaled a deep breath, his scent a heady aroma of earth, wood fire, and freshly mown grass. If she closed her eyes, she could see the camp fire and tents and smell the burgers and brats sizzling away on the grill.

“Maybe,” he whispered, voice bringing her back to reality. Her gaze returned to his, finding a smirk on his face.

“Why? It’s just a nickname. Like Sia. Or Mal. Would you feel better if I called you Cully?” she jested.

“Maker, no—”

“Cully Wully!”

“ _Andraste’s flaming sword, no!_ ” he managed through his embarrassed laughter and Amallia laughed with him. It was at least a minute before Cullen could speak again. “I’ve never heard anyone call him ‘Ali’. Not even Sia.”

“That’s because he _hates_ it. So she doesn’t call him that in public,” she clarified. “But she does, I can assure you, and it is _adorable_.”

“Is Sia ever _not_ adorable?” he asked.

It was her turn to mask her jealousy. “No, she is the sweetest woman I’ve ever met,” Amallia replied with feigned disgust. “Sometimes, it me sick how wonderful she is.”

Muscled arms rippled around her waist as Cullen pulled her closer. “Not as wonderful as you.”

“Oh, gross! You’re doing the thing again!” she exclaimed.

“I never promised not be romantic with you ever again,” he whispered as a hand delved into her hair, lips on her ear and chest hard against her breasts.

A soft sigh escaped her, arousal and frustration mingling. Maker, but she wanted him. She wanted him so much it hurt, the urge so tightly coiled in her core, aching for release. Hands and toys had done little to satisfy her over the last month, and she had even awoken mid-climax during an incredibly erotic dream of the two of them a few nights ago. As one hand grasped her backside and the other hand gripped her hair, Amallia could resist it no longer. Her lips claimed his in a rush, crashing down upon his for a heated kiss. And with a roll of her hips, she found the swell of his erection straining against his slacks.

His aching moan sent a rush of arousal straight to her core, wetness pooling between her thighs. His chest heaved, breathing hard as his arm snaked over her hip, reaching further. Fingers followed the seam of her leggings, gliding to her center. She knew he found the damp fabric there for he shuddered in her embrace, growling deep in his chest.

“Cullen, please,” she whispered against his lips. “I can’t do this anymore. I want you.”

“We promised, Mal,” he replied with a groaning sigh.

“It’s been a _month_ ,” she whined, begged. “Maker, I need to _feel_ you again.”

He sighed once more, a pitiful whine of his own as his fingers parted from her center. “I’m sorry …”

She collapsed into the crook of his neck, nose buried in his scent. “No, don’t be. You’re right. Oh, but you drive me crazy.”

“I didn’t even do anything,” he murmured as he hugged her close, arms returning to her waist.

“Bullshit,” she said with a laugh.

“Ah, so the romantic stuff _does_ work on you!” he declared with a surge of confidence.

Amallia pushed back from him, indignant and annoyed. “No … maybe,” she stuttered. “Shut up!” With that she stood, forcing herself to part from him lest she lose the last bit of control she yet maintained.

Cullen’s laughter followed her into the hall as she made her way for the kitchen. “Can you take out a bottle of wine?”

A wordless grunt was all she managed, flustered beyond thought. She selected a bottle of red from his cooler, opening it and finding two glasses to take back to his office. Once there, she found Cullen pouring over several documents removed from a box and spread across the table. Amazed at his ability to focus, she studied him with a careful eye, watching for any hint of lingering arousal. His slacks did little to mask his erection, twitching heavily under her gaze as he leaned over the table.

“This investigation is going to be the death of me,” he sighed, a hand coursing through his hair to rub the back of his neck.

She poured a glass and handed it to him. When he took it, she replied, “I doubt it, but that raging hard-on might if you don’t take care of it. Or let _me_ take care of it.” She waggled her eyebrows at him and Cullen rolled his eyes in response.

“I need to get started on this,” he admonished. “Get a few hours into it before Alistair arrives.”

“You mean _Ali_ ,” she jested as she poured herself a glass of wine and returned to her seat. Cullen scoffed in response as he returned his focus to the documents before him, silence filling the room in short order.

“You mentioned they were going to be in town and didn’t want to stay at the Calenhad Resort, right? Where are they going to stay?”

“Here …”

“What?”

“Just the weekend …”

“Cullen! They’re staying with us?! Where?” she cried out in shock.

He turned to her, surprise plain. “I thought you would enjoy it. Spend some time with our friends. We can stay in your place, they can stay in mine, here.”

“I … well,” she paused thinking. Though sudden, the idea sounded quite pleasant. She dearly missed both of them. Maybe a spontaneous weekend together would be fun. “I suppose that would work.”

“Mhm.”

His distracted reply drew her attention, finding him far more focused on the documents on the table than her. She stood next to him, searching as she attempted to understand each form and order and statement strewn about the table.

Amallia would never know what urged her to pick up the bank records. Proximity, maybe, to her empty hand. Or size, the stack several pages thick, thicker than any other document on the table. Or, most likely, the name of the business in large bold print across the header.

“Well _that's_ fake.”

Cullen's head whipped to her, brow furrowed and eyes glaring at the document. She handed it over to him with a shrug as she returned to her chair. Eyes scanned the lengthy bank statement, and Amallia could see the gears churning in his head.

“I don’t get it.”

She took another pull of wine, savoring the flavor. “The company name on these transactions. It's fake.”

The corners of his lips turned down, not in disapproval, but in confused interest. He looked at the document, then back to her, then once more returning to the document. With a pen from his desk he scribbled an illegible note across the top and then stuffed the document in a separate folder.

“What’s with the folder?” she asked.

“Leads.”

As fast as she could, she snatched the folder and turned away from him to examine its contents. She lifted the top of the folder to find it contained the singular bank statement. “This?!” she exclaimed as she wheeled on him. “This is your only lead?! I thought you had been working on this for weeks!”

An offended scowl met her words as he turned to one of the two boxes, and nimble fingertips flipped through the file, an idea seeming to have gripped him. “There were twelve boxes of evidence, Mal. Took us nearly four weeks to sort it all.” From the box he withdrew another piece of paper, printed front and back with tiny black text, adding it to the folder.

“Twelve?! And out of all of that, you’ve narrowed it down to two boxes and _one_ lead?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yes. Something doesn’t add up. Just like that bank statement has loads of errors in it, fake name aside,” he mumbled. “None of this makes sense, and it has me extremely bothered. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

She stood there scowling at the folder, laying so lonesome on the desk where she had tossed it. “Wait,” she began, “I thought you had another lead. A few months ago. Ashara found something, didn’t she? From my camera?”

A light flickered in his eyes, something registering there, a memory returned to the front of his mind. “You’re right,” he started, “but we checked that lead out. He wasn’t involved. Had an alibi, regardless of how little sense it made to me.”

Amallia fell silent then, unable to think of anything else to add. The name of the company on that document, _Warden Capitals_ , rubbed her the wrong way. It was so obvious, she was surprised that Cullen had not noted it earlier. Who would use such a name? Pulling from obscure history like that was a sure sign of grasping for attention. Unless someone wanted the name to be overlooked by the ridiculous notion …

Hours passed as the two poured over every document in each of the two boxes, not a single item remotely related to each other or the _Warden Capitals_ document. Recordings and DVDs of video interviews were replayed ad nausea until Amallia’s head felt like a led weight, falling into her arms as she drifted off to sleep. The bottle of wine emptied, seeming to do so on its own, but when Amallia nodded off for the third time, she knew most of the wine was in her belly.

“Cullen,” she said through a yawn as she stretched.

When he looked to her, she smiled her best sultry smile and reached out for his waist. He returned the look, lids heavy with exhaustion. At her touch, he hummed his pleasure through his nose, then drew her in close with an arm around her waist.

“Yes, pup?” he replied.

“Sleep with me tonight?”

He hesitated a second before responding. “Mal, we can’t—”

She waved off his concern, shaking her head. “No. I mean, literally, sleep beside me tonight. I … just want to feel you next to me. That will be enough.”

Gears worked again, always considering her with such scrutiny, she thought he could see into her mind. But then his smile returned and he nodded in agreement. “That sounds quite nice. To bed then?”

A muffled agreement mumbled into his neck was all Amallia managed, so tired that she collapsed into his arms. The last thing she remembered before succumbing to sleep was the floating sensation as her feet left the floor.


	48. Look Mal, No Hands!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mal asks Cullen to sleep with her -- literally -- and who is he to refuse?

Maker, but it had been a terrible idea.

He should have expected it, but after Cullen had set Amallia on her feet beside his bed and she attempted to disrobe, he’d stared in shock. Gathering the hem of her shirt, she lifted it over her head in one smooth motion and letting it fall to floor with a careless flick of her wrist. Her pants followed, hips wiggling as she tugged the jeans down, then kicking them away to join her shirt. And then her underwear followed, a clumsy, drunken hop on one foot removing her underwear, black bra topping the pile of her clothes.

When she called to him, beckoning from his bed, his attention returned and then he followed suit, shirt and slacks joining hers, but when his thumbs hooked into his brief, he thought better of it and left them on. Much to his relief, Amallia didn’t complain.

No, instead, she was asleep by the time he turned off the lamp and climbed in beside her. On her side, she leaned against him, and he lay close, bodies flush. The feel of her was irresistible, smooth skin hot against his own and he turned over to wrap an arm around her waist. Predictably, the curve of her backside nestled in the crook of his hips, their shapes melding with perfection. And as he lay there, attempting to sleep, his hand moved of its own volition, gliding over her skin. Over her stomach, along her hip, and down her thigh he rubbed and she responded with soft sighs. Cullen relished the feel of her in his arms again, so real, he knew nothing but her.

He thought himself a man of control. Or at least a man with a modicum of respect and decency. Not some lecherous creep that couldn’t sleep next to a woman without sporting an erection. But his manhood proved him wrong, swelling and straining against the fabric of his underwear. The familiar ache she elicited from him blossomed anew and Cullen sucked in a deep breath as he shut his eyes in a vain attempt to ignore it.

With a painful erection, Cullen rolled to his back, hoping to remove the cause of his arousal. But the sheets did little to hide her form lying next to him in the moonlight. The curve of her shoulder, the dip of her waist, and the round swell of her hips enticed him, drawing him in with each breath, with each rise and fall of her silhouette.

His cock twitched with a heavy flex, straining for his attention. A soft whimper fell from his lips and he flung the sheets from his sweat slicked body, far too hot with arousal. Maker’s breath, it hurt, the longing, the lust, all pent up for over a month. She was right. It _would_ drive them insane, the longer they waited.

But she was drunk. And asleep. Maybe, if he kept quiet, he could take care of the problem on his own. With a careful eye on Amallia, he slipped his hand beneath the waist band of his shorts and grasped his swollen length, a soft hiss falling from pursed lips. The sensitivity of his aroused flesh surprised him so that he withdrew his touch at first, hesitant, afraid of waking her. But a deep breath steadied his grip, his resolve, fingers slipping around the shaft. A soft squeeze rolled his hips into his fist, and his free hand smoothed along his stomach to his chest, seeking a pert nipple. There was relief in his grasp, a soothing to the ache in his groin, and so, Cullen sought his end.

And then he realized just how impossible that would be the second he attempted the first stroke of his cock, bed shaking with the motion of his arm. As if scalded, his hand tore from his flesh, the waistband of his brief snapping against his taut skin.

Well, shit.

It was quite the predicament. The muscles of his groin flexed, squeezing, begging for his touch. The heat in his belly fanned to a roaring fire, his hips rolling with another slow thrust. And as Cullen’s eyes shut tight, the vision of Amallia, naked atop him, riding him, flooded his mind.

“ _Fuck_.”

He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, teeth biting hard to keep quiet after his uttered curse. Fists grasped the sheets as he writhed, slight and slow movements driving him mad with frustration. Little thrusts of his hips mimicked the images in his mind’s eye, and his erection swelled further at the thought of driving himself deep into her cunt.

Breath erratic, soft pants burst from his lips, and Cullen whimpered, try as he might to remain silent. Wound so tight, he felt as though he would burst without another touch, the uncontrolled lust coursing through his veins. But that was impossible, there was no way he would finish without at least his own hand. His cock proved him wrong, throbbing with repeated pulses, swelling until he could stand it no longer. The friction of his briefs against the sensitive skin, rubbing along the shaft wasn’t enough to push him over that precarious edge. A moan too loud burst through his lips, pulled from his chest as he struggled to reach his end.

“Come for me, Cullen.”

The low whisper of her voice sent such a shudder through his body, he didn’t care that he had awoken her. He writhed in earnest then, hips rolling with intent, with the need of release. And Amallia urged him onward, using only her voice to give him his pleasure once more.

“You want it, Cullen. Take it. Come. Imagine filling me up with your seed.”

“Oh, _fuck_ , yes—” he grunted, breath catching in his throat. The steady rhythm of his twitching cock unraveled the bindings of his climax, splitting at the seams and consuming him whole. His hands grasped his length, pulling the fabric tight around the head of his cock as he came. The heat of his fluids rushed over his length, seeping through his briefs in beads with each throbbing spurt. His hips shuddered with his release as he thrust into his stroking hands, milking himself for every ounce of pleasure he could get.

An embarrassed flush colored his cheeks and he wondered if Amallia could see it in the moonlit room. Her hum of approval said otherwise as she nestled in close, lying on her side. Cullen sighed a deep breath, still floating along the currents of his orgasm and succumbing to the pure bliss that was the feel of her against him.

Wriggling free of the messy fabric, Cullen removed his briefs and cleaned himself as best as he could. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed them to the floor, not wanting to disturb Amallia by leaving her side. The undulating rise and fall of her head on his chest lulled him to sleep within minutes. And for the first time in over a year, he slept straight through the night.


	49. Maybe We Are Investigators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair joins Cullen and his team in reviewing the results of their preliminary investigation.

“Shit, Cullen. You weren’t joking.”

“He’s never joking,” Cole muttered.

Ashara giggled from her corner of his office as Cullen took up a stance behind his desk. His staff lined the wall near the door, gathered for the meeting with their governor. 

And Alistair stood in the center of the room with his mouth agape, staring at the twelve boxes of evidence piled in the far corner of the room.

“This was what they sent you?” Alistair asked, anger coloring his voice.

Cullen nodded as he took a seat. “Yes. Abysmal record keeping, if you want my opinion. Like I said on the phone, it took four weeks to sort it all.”

“And far too much coffee,” Raleigh added.

“And take-out,” Delrin chimed in. “My stomach is finally back to normal.”

From his desk, Cullen laughed with his team, knowing the late nights and terrible food to which Delrin referred. They had all slept so little and worked with tireless ambition to see a proper job done on the investigation, sacrificing their time and bodies in the effect.

When their humor waned, Alistair remained silent, and Cullen watched as his friend frowned with disappointment. “Rest assured, all of you will be properly compensated for your diligent work,” he noted, voice solemn.

Something about the man was off, something deeper than Cullen had expected. Whatever it was, it had Alistair worried, such that Cullen noticed, and he was determined to find out what it was.

“Those boxes,” Cullen began, gesturing to the eight that lined the far windows, “mean absolutely fuck-all. They are completely bogus documents, falsified to some degree or another. Those two,” he continued, pointing behind Raleigh and the man moved, “contain tangential information. We’ve not entirely ruled any of that out. And then these two,” he finished, patting the top of the box nearest him on his desk, “contain actual evidence. Statements, witness information, video, audio, and the like.”

Alistair followed, eyes scanning the room as Cullen spoke. “And that?” he asked, spotting the small folder beneath Cullen’s hands.

“The pièce de résistance,” Cullen jested with a terrible Orlesian accent as he held up the folder. “Leads.”

“That’s… that’s it?” Alistair squeaked as he approached the desk. With a flick of a finger, he plunked the folder. “One flimsy folder?”

Tension seized the room like a vice slamming shut. While Alistair was his friend, to his colleagues he was their governor, their most important customer to date. “There’s actually quite a bit of concrete information here. And that’s where you come in. Ready for the gritty details?”

Alistair took a seat at the small table, the others following suit as Cullen rounded his desk with the folder. He approached the large presentation board before the tiny table, flipping it over to reveal all of the relevant evidence taped to the board, lines drawn between pictures and documents alike.

“I stand corrected,” Alistair replied. “Let’s get down to it then.”

* * *

 

An hour later, Cullen flipped the presentation board back over and grabbed the remote on his desk. “You’ve seen the numerous dead-ends,” he started. “And we’ve waded through possible connections. But this,” he continued as he thumbed a button on the remote, “this has to be the most damning piece of evidence, superseded only by the lack of investigative work on its behalf.”

“This is my face of shock,” Alistair muttered with deadpan sarcasm. Cullen held back his retort, pressing buttons to draw the shades of his office windows and start the projector.

“This video is graphic. Consider yourself warned,” he stated with a glower and Alistair nodded, waving his hand for him to continue.

With one more press of a button, a shaky cellphone video flashed across the presentation board, blurry, unfocused. He’d watched it at least a hundred times since finding the tape buried at the bottom of a box, lacking any relationship with the other contents. Instead of watching the video again, Cullen focused on Alistair. Leaning over, elbows on knees and fingers steepled before full lips to press against his long nose.

The shouts of the crowd gathered before the diner earlier that year fell to a hush as his voice echoed through the speakers. Alistair’s eyes scanned from left to right, Cole, Ashara, Amodisia, himself. Delrin and Krem behind him, Raleigh stepping into place beside them, Amallia with her camera, and Cullen near the steps. He squinted, waiting for what was about to come. Amallia’s shout reverberated through the square and the high-powered rifle blast rang out, so close to unison, Cullen could no longer determine which came first.

Screams and chaos followed, the cell phone video dropping to the ground with its owner. Alistair’s brow furrowed into a deep scowl as he held out his hand to Cullen.

“What?”

“The remote, I need it,” he demanded and without questioning it, Cullen handed it over.

“Find something?” Delrin asked.

“Maybe ...” the governor grumbled.

Repeated presses of a button on the remote stepped the video back several frames until Alistair was satisfied. Pushing play, Amallia’s shout and the rifle blast sounded once more. And then again. And again. Alistair replayed the same two seconds of video at least five times before Cullen turned to watch.

It took one loop for him to understand, a cold dread tingling in his hands and feet and a sinking, plummeting sensation filling his stomach. When he turned back to Alistair, a pained frown pursed his lips and creased his brow. Cullen turned back to the video, watching again as the bullet passed through Amallia’s outstretched arm, Alistair falling to the riser floor, and knocking little Amodisia to the ground beside him.

He cleared his throat, motioning to Ashara. “Could you narrow in and clean these frames up.”

Ashara considered him, the video, then Alistair before nodding. “Right away, sir,” she agreed as she stood and left for her desk.

“I need to see the bullet forensics,” Alistair demanded as he stood, remote in a white-knuckled grip.

Raleigh hissed in frustration and the others shifted in their chairs, the uncomfortable topic finally discovered. The grimace on Cullen’s face mirrored that of his colleagues around the room. Alistair looked from one employee to the next, his own visage growing darker by the second.

“Andraste help me, if they kept that report—”

“They didn’t,” Cullen interjected. “They did not hide the analysis because there  _was no_  analysis.”

“What?” Alistair's snarling growl startled Cullen. He had never seen the man so angry in all the years he had known him. Sure, politics frustrated him, but Alistair was always the type to live and let live.

“Bullet trajectory analysis was never performed. I don’t even have the fucking bullet. Nobody does. Redcliffe police doesn’t have it. Denerim doesn’t either,” he insisted as Alistair withdrew his cell phone. “I checked. Twice.”

Alistair’s cheeks reddened, not with his typical embarrassment, but with raw fury, the plastic of his phone crackling in his fist. Cullen wondered what was churning through his friend’s brain, but his thought came to an abrupt halt when Ashara returned.

“Check the network share, Mr. Rutherford.”

Cullen exited the video using the mouse and keyboard of his desktop, browsing out to the firm’s network storage. Ashara directed him to a specific directory buried deep within a nondescript and unrelated mapped drive.

“There. Bring that up,” she directed.

Cullen executed the video finding the first frame centered on Alistair’s upper body. Crisp, the resolution had been improved to fit the new frame size. They watched with rapt attention as the video played in slow motion.

“Stop.”

Cullen paused the video on command, turning to Alistair who strode to the board and picked up a marker. The bullet stood at the far edge of the screen to their right and there he placed a dot.

“Move forward to … when it …” Alistair stuttered, motioning to the back of his arm.

“To when it hit the victim?” Cullen asked, stoic as ever and Alistair nodded, eyes diverted back to the screen.

He stepped the video onward, frame by frame until the round was a millimeter shy of Amallia’s arm. There, Alistair placed another dot and the whiteboard added a straight line between the two, bright red. Standing back with a dire scowl, he gestured to the image with a helpless sigh.

Never had Cullen seen Alistair so distraught. And when no one in the room responded to what Alistair must have considered the obvious conclusion, he exploded.

“Don’t you see?! Maker, it doesn’t take a genius to do this!” He shouted as he jammed another dot on the board far to the left, another line connecting the dots.

At the edge of the frame stood darling Amodisia in all of her five-foot glory.

The bright red line crossed her face.

“Maker’s breath.”

“She was standing not six inches to my right,” Alistair muttered, voice hollow, defeated. “The platform was crowded, so she’d stepped forward a bit, gave me some shoulder room … always thinking of me ...” he trailed off as he slumped into his chair.

The image of Amodisia's face, red line slashed across it, stared into the silent room and Cullen felt a sudden wave of nausea. If Amallia had not tackled Alistair ... He shook his head in disgust, taking the remote from Alistair and shutting off the projector. Lights returned as the shades drew up to the ceiling, revealing the sunbathed city below.

“Where is Sia now?” Cullen asked.

“She’s at the convention center meeting with some people about a non-profit--”

“Krem, Delrin, and Raleigh, plain clothes, immediately. Go pick her up and bring her to Amallia’s,” Cullen ordered.

Raleigh's eyes grew wide at the mention of her name. “Where does she live, sir?”

Cullen shook his head, confused. “The apartments across the street,” he gestured to the large window with his hand.

The entire room looked at the seven-story building, glittering in the setting sun, then turned back to stare at him.

“Sir?” Ashara began. “Isn’t that where you live?”

_Fuck._

“Are you …” Alistair trailed off, leaving the question unfinished.

Cullen glowered at him, voice just above a whisper. “Am I  _what?_ ” he growled.

“Now is that tone necessary? I was only going to ask if you lived with Mal, but if you’re going to get all offended when your friend wants to know what’s going on because you never talk to him, fine, I don’t need to know,” Alistair rambled.

_He’s right_. Cullen regretted unintentionally avoiding his friends the last few weeks, so swamped with work he hardly had any time to himself, let alone anyone else. He owed Alistair an update, but not then, not in the middle of an important discussion, considering their discovery.

“No, I do not live with Mal,” he began. “The rest of you  _will_ keep your mouths shut about this. I live across the hall from her. It was a coincidence,” he explained.

A brow on Alistair’s forehead quirked up, mirroring the smirk at the corner of his lips. “Aaaaaaand?”

Maybe if he stared at Alistair hard enough, the man would get the idea to shut up without Cullen having to ask it of him.

“And what?” he grunted.

“You live across the hall from the woman you’re crazy about and you’re trying to tell us you’re  _not_ —”

“RALEIGH. SHUT UP!” Cullen roared. “And  _yes!_  If you must know, I am … whatever you were about to say,” he growled.

“You’re fu—”

“We’re  _dating_ , you tit!” he shouted again. “And what in the Void are you three still doing here?! Did I not just give you an order?! MOVE!”


	50. The Way Things Should Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain and Anora discuss their futures with Ferelden's government.

“I told you, the council won’t be discussing that bill until next week—”

She must be on the phone. Loghain heard no response to Anora’s statement, clipping short before she could finish. Outside her office door he waited, patient, calm. He had no choice; his daughter outranked him in their stations as servants to Ferelden. Though he had sacrificed a great deal, his little girl had given up everything, her entire life, to serve. Even the governor's seat.

Loghain glowered at the painted visage of Alistair hanging on the wall across the sunlight hall. Usurper. Impostor. _Bastard._ Had it not been for him, Anora would have taken the governorship unopposed. And yet, when Alistair had announced his campaign, Anora had accepted the competition with the all the grace and dignity for which she was known. She should have won. But, no. It couldn’t be that easy.

 _Nothing was ever easy_.

* * *

 

Now, the task fell to him to pick up the pieces, to give Anora what she deserved and restore their family name to its high and rightful place of honor. Ferelden belonged to them. The last thirty years of his life in office had not been for nothing. Tireless and without reservation, Loghain had worked to protect their state from the machinations of others. Ferelden deserved no less of him.

Anora deserved no less.

She’d entered politics straight out of her masters in law from Calenhad University, his alma mater. It had taken little to convince her to stay with Calenhad for her graduate program – a brief scare arose at the end of her undergraduate when she expressed the desire to seek out other universities, like Ostwick, Tevinter, and _Andraste’s tits_ , even Val Royaeux. Loghain new that, deep in her heart, she’d have regretted leaving Calenhad. So, with a short discussion of the values the other schools could provide, Anora had agreed Calenhad was the best choice.

And without a minute’s delay after graduating, she was speaking with public officers about a myriad of things; some topics were a bit altruistic, lofty and unreachable, and, in the end, unnecessary for Ferelden to prosper. But most were the exact ideas, the perfect solutions to the problems their state faced. The years slipped by, each seeing her grow into the skilled and powerful woman she was today. And when the time came to run for the best seat in the house, Anora leaped without looking.

She should have. Damn the woman, but she should have taken at least one breath before announcing her candidacy. They could have avoided the disaster they were now in, with Alistair _fucking_ Half-a-Theirin. If it wasn’t for his wife, that damn Amell woman and her ties to the Free Marches, Alistair would have lost the election. And if Anora hadn’t announced her candidacy so early, Loghain could have found a man to run against Alistair and beat him with one hand tied behind his back.

The phone clicked as it landed on the base and Loghain startled at the harsh crack of plastic on plastic.  His daughter’s sigh shot such an ache through his chest and ignited an anger in his belly, he fumed with frustration. She worked with the same tenacity, the same focus as he, and for what? To serve a worthless governor, a man who knew nothing about running a state?

Without knocking, Loghain burst into her office, his temper getting the better of him. Every bit of his anger raged to the surface, the words ready to burst from him in a relentless torrent. Yet, when he spotted his daughter behind her desk, frazzled and shocked to see him, all the bluster died in his chest. She stood in a heartbeat, rounding her desk to greet him with a warm hug and a kiss to his cheek.

“Fancy seeing you here so late,” she started. “I thought you’d have gone home by now.”

Loghain put on his best smile, hoping, _praying_ she’d not seen his moment of weakness. “Are you free for dinner tonight. No plans?”

Bless her heart, Anora laughed as she plucked her coat from the rack beside her. “None, at all. Since when do I ever have plans?”

“Just making sure I'm not intruding,” he started with a hopeful tone. “You’ve been eating dinner alone lately? Is everything alright?”

She shrugged into her coat, then headed for the door. “It's fine. I'm just busy.”

Too casual, too careless. He would need to teach her to better maintain her emotions. “What of Ian?”

Her arms folded around her waist, shoulders hunching as she retreated into herself. “He’s … alright. Haven’t talked in a couple weeks,” she commented as they exited her office. Behind them, she locked the handle and tested it before turning back to him. “Like I said, I've been busy.”

Good. Ian was a distraction she didn’t need. “I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe it’ll work out,” he suggested as they walked down the hall for the garage. “In the end.”

Anora's sidelong glare could sour milk in a single second. “Da? Are you alright?” she asked as she touched his arm. “You seem … off.”

Maybe she wasn’t so oblivious after all. “Anora, if you had another chance at the governorship, an assured win, would you take it?”

Her hand flicked away and left a cold, empty space behind on his forearm. Serious, grim even, she stared straight ahead and Loghain heard the gears of her mind churning. “I would. If Ferelden needed me, I would serve without hesitation. But, why ask?”

Seven years later and her loss of the governorship was still a sore subject. He dug deeper, prodding the wound a little further. “Ferelden would be nothing without you. Without us. You should be governor. I'll manage your campaign next time. You’ll win.”

Anora stopped dead in her tracks, gaping. “How? Alistair _is_ governor. And he’s not leaving any time soon.”

He shook his head and waved away her concern. “What if he was leaving, though? Hypothetically speaking, what if he abdicated mid-term?” He took her hands in his and pulled her along, a dead weight he coaxed to continue walking.

“I … I guess. But why—”

Loghain wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her close as he spoke over her. “That’s my girl. Keep your chin up, like we always do, right?”

Anora didn’t respond, not at first. The hint of a frown turned down the corners of her lips, but then she shrugged, nodding in what he assumed to be agreement.

The remainder of their walk to the garage continued in silence, but Loghain brimmed with excitement, barely contained as it boiled in his veins. In a few more weeks, their problem would be solved. Alistair would abdicate, without a doubt.

And then Anora would finally have everything she’d ever wanted.


	51. Visitation Rights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia's afternoon is interrupted by early guests.

Commander’s head popped up from her lap, hackles rising and teeth bared. A low grumble rolled in his chest as he eyed the hallway from her studio room. Amallia followed his glare through the door, listening close, her fingers hovering above the keys of her piano. Not a beat later, a rough fist pounded on the front door to her apartment and Commander launched from his seat beside her, tearing down the hall, nails clicking on the wood floor as he barked bursts of canine fury.

Amallia followed, leaving her work unfinished at the keyboard. At the door, she quieted the whining Mabari with a short hiss and a snap of her fingers. Commander sat back on his haunches and ceased his verbal assault on the door with a click of his teeth. When Amallia opened the door, she couldn’t contain her surprise.

“Sia!” she exclaimed as she embraced the tiny woman. “You’re not supposed to be here until after dinner, what’s going on?”

Amodisia didn’t respond, returning her hug and slipping by into the apartment. Three men followed her, faces Amallia recalled but their names eluded her. They shuffled along with her friend’s bags, pushing past before she could protest. Commander followed her friend, sniffing at her pockets until she withdrew a large chunk of rawhide and presented it to him. He took it between his teeth with a gentle bite, then walked away with his horse like gate for his bed in the living room.

When one of the men set two of her bags down in the hall, he spoke to Amodisia. “Where would you like us to put these, ma'am?”

“Oh, right there’s fine, Delrin. We’ll take care of them,” Amodisia dismissed.

 _Delrin? From the August show?_ “Ah, no, we won’t,” Amallia interrupted, repeating her question with an impatient wave of her hand. “What’s going on?”

“Lala? Is everything – Sia?” Dorian stuttered as he rounded from the kitchen. Amodisia was about to reply, a smile brightening her face at the sight of Amallia’s cousin, but then Bull rounded the corner and her mouth clicked shut in confusion. Bull bumped into Dorian as he stopped short, caught flat-footed by Amodisia’s appearance. He muttered an apology to Dorian, hands on his shoulders and an inquisitive frown creasing the giant man’s brow as his head tilted like that of a curious dog.

“Mrs. Theirin?” he asked.

Her smile shifted in the blink of an eye from elated to confused. “Am I interrupting something?”

Amallia scoffed in frustration. “No, I … wait,” she paused as the thought occurred to her. She rounded on the two men near the door, the memory of the  _APOSTATES_  show replaying in her mind. “Raleigh? What are you doing here?! And Krem?!”

They nodded in turn, and when she considered Delrin, mouthing his name in silence, he nodded as well. As the seconds ticked by, marked by the sound of crunching rawhide traveling to the entry way, Amallia’s confusion piqued.

“Would somebody  _please_  explain to me why the governor’s wife is being dropped off at my apartment, unannounced, by three men I met only six months back?”

Raleigh smirked a tightlipped smile, failing to retain a short laugh. “Seems like the chief has his hands full.”

“Chief? Who …” she stuttered, mind reeling.

“You look way different when you’re not on stage.”

The pieces of the puzzle tumbled into place all at once. “Oh, you  _work_ for Cullen?!” Amallia exclaimed with a laugh. “Great, then you should have an explanation.”

“Mr. Rutherford's orders,” Delrin interjected. “Said her life might be in danger.”

Another scoff burst from her chest with a roll of her eyes. “Of course her life is in danger, it’s  _always_  in danger, she’s the governor’s wife.”

“Mal, please, it’s not their fault, they’re just following orders. Cullen will be around shortly with Alistair and we’ll explain then,” Amodisia soothed as she took Amallia’s hand in hers.

She stared down to her friend, bottle green eyes wide and searching. When she looked to them, Raleigh, Delrin, and Krem stood in silence, waiting for her to speak.

“I’m sorry, Sia,” she said as she turned back to the woman. “I wasn’t expecting you until later, much later. I’ll have to head back to the store for more food—”

“When’s dinner?” Raleigh blurted.

Amallia rounded on the man, an eyebrow creeping to her forehead. Delrin laughed as Raleigh squirmed under her gaze until Krem clapped him on the shoulder. “I doubt you were invited,” he added as he started for the door. Raleigh followed with a shrug as he replied, “Never hurts to ask,” and Delrin laughed once more as they shuffled through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

With that settled, Amallia turned back to find her friend hoisting up most of her bags. “Where should I put these?”

“Mrs. Theirin, I can take those,” Bull offered as he approached and Amodisia agreed with enthusiasm.

“So polite,” she quipped with a girlish giggle as she handed over her luggage and he took the bags from her, carrying them down the hall to disappear around a corner.

“Maker, Sia, why did you pack so much? Two suitcases, two duffle bags …” Amallia’s thought faded, a hand to her forehead. “You’re only here for the weekend, right?

“Alistair insisted we pack extra,” she explained. “ _Much_  extra.”

None of it made sense. “Why? What’s going on? Why are you here so early?”

Amodisia sighed, frustrated as she was. “I’m not sure, Mal, but we’ll find out soon enough. Ready for the concert tomorrow night?” A toothy grin replaced her frown as she grasped her by the forearms. “I’m so excited! It’ll be like college again.”

Like college again? “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, it’s not exactly the type of show where I would bring guests along.”

“Only the Maker understands why you enjoy  _that_  music.”

She’d all but forgotten Dorian standing in the middle of the entry. “That coming from a person who only listens to big band jazz from the twenties,” she shot back. “You just going to stand there? Dinner doesn’t cook itself.”

“Yes, my lady, so sorry to have abandoned my post,” he said with an exaggerated bow, then headed for the kitchen. Bull returned from the spare room and approached Amodisia with an outstretched hand.

“The Iron Bull, so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Theirin,” he said with a toothy grin.

Amodisia took his hand in hers and gave it a firm shake. “Quite the name. And how do you know Amallia?”

“I play bass guitar in our cover band,” he explained. “And I’m her personal trainer. I own a gym.”

She shot Amallia a curious smirk. “Cover band? That’s what Mr. Samson meant, then?” Amodisia asked as her stare lingered.

Amallia gestured to the couch as she spoke. “That … yeah. You know what, I’ll tell you about it later, it’s quite the story.”

Amodisia sat beside her with a few notes of her girlish laughter and Bull took up the chair across from them. “Mal, how do you know Mrs. Theirin?”

She laughed, memories returning to the forefront of her mind. “This stays between us, Bull,” she began. “Well, us and Dorian. We met in college, at Calenhad U. I was in my third semester and Sia was just starting when we became friends.”

“That’s a strange term for lovers!” Dorian called from the kitchen.

“Kadan! Don’t be rude!” Bull replied. “He has no room to talk, he won’t let me tell anybody-”

“Ah-ah, none of that, now!” Dorian’s voice carried.

Amallia spotted the curious look on Amodisia’s face and attempted to clarify under her breath. Her friend nodded in understanding, patting Amallia on the knee as she spoke.

“We knew the value of keeping our relationship … close to the heart,” she mused, smiling. “But I am so very happy we’ve reconnected with you and Cullen.”

“You know Cullen as well, Mrs. Theirin?” Bull asked with a laugh. “One big happy family?”

Amallia opened her mouth to respond, but, as if summoned, the door burst open, giving way to Cullen and Alistair. Haggard and exhausted, they both shuffled through the entry and stumbled about in the hall, awkward and stuttering apologies as they avoided one another’s space.

Amallia leapt from the couch and met Cullen at the end of the hall. When she embraced him, she felt him slump in her arms with a heavy sigh, near to collapsing. “Maker, are you alright? What’s going on?”

His deep breath drew in at the crook of her neck, arms wrapping around her for a tight hug. “Give me a minute, pup? I’m a bit worn.”

She nodded, releasing him as he pulled back and headed down the hall. When the bathroom door clicked shut, concern flooded her with cold dread.

She turned to find Alistair holding Amodisia, feet off the floor and dangling as her husband hugged her close. The strained, distant stare on his face looked much the same as it had the day of his public event at the diner.

“Ali, put me down, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere,” Amodisia muttered.

“I … I’m sorry,” he said with a sheepish frown. “Just had to … feel you. You know? Reassure myself you’re here.”

Amodisia gave her a sidelong look, suspicion clouding her face as she returned to Alistair’s tepid visage. “Something’s happened. Talk to me.”

Alistair’s pained stare lingered on Amodisia for several seconds before he turned to Amallia and wrapped her up in the same unrelenting hug in which he had held his wife.

“Thank you, Mal.”

“Ali, darling, you’re crushing my ribs,” she gasped. When his arms eased, she breathed in a long draw and looked to him. “What are you thanking me for?”

Alistair’s gaze pulled from hers to the man standing behind her. Cullen shuffled up the hall, labored steps and damp hair curling about his forehead. And if Amallia hadn’t learned his face so well over the last month together, she wouldn’t have recognized the hint of jealousy there in his amber eyes as he spotted her in Alistair’s arms. A discussion for a different day, she thought.

“Remember the shooting?” Cullen muttered, any note of jealousy fleeting as he spoke.

An absent hand gripped her bicep, thumb rasping over the dark scar. “I doubt I’ll ever forget it.”

Cullen nodded, sympathetic frown pulling his lips taut. “Who were you trying to save, Mal?”

Concern flared to anger in a flash. Was he questioning her motives from that day? Why? How was it not damn obvious who she had been trying to save?

“Are you serious?” she hissed.

That earned her a stern glare. Serious, indeed. “Just answer the question, Mal.”

Shrugging, she spoke. “Alistair. Now, I’ve had enough confusion for one day. Would one of you please explain why Sia was brought here early and unannounced?”

Dorian rounded the kitchen from the counter again and took up a position against the island. “I’m equally curious, but I must ask, are you allowed to divulge any of this information around civilians, Mr. Rutherford?”

Cullen gestured to Alistair. “The governor has given me permission. I informed him of our dinner this evening and he felt it would not harm the investigation at all. Besides, Amallia and Amodisia need to be questioned, which, until today, has yet to happen.”

Amallia scowled. He was right; not a single detective had ever spoken to her about her actions that day. “I was wondering when they would be calling.”

Alistair motioned to the living room. “Could we sit down for this? I have a feeling it will be a very long discussion.”

Dorian cleared his throat before speaking again. “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough food for everyone. Amallia didn’t inform me we would be hosting the Governor of Ferelden and his wife as well,” he added as he approached Amodisia and hugged her with a tight squeeze.

“I’ll call Karris,” Amallia interjected as she dug out of her pocket. “She hasn’t left yet. I can send her to the store.”

“Perfect,” Alistair chimed with a sardonic grin. “Then we’ll tell you all about how fucked this investigation ended up over dinner.”


	52. Table Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen divulges the preliminary results of their investigation into the attempted assassination of Governor Theirin.

Two hours passed before dinner lay across the table, Karris rescuing their evening meal with extra groceries. And though the food was an odd combination of dishes, picked and prepared in haste due to their extended guest list, Dorian beamed with pride over the feast as he sat at the head of the table.

Amallia smiled, her cousin’s infectious grin drawing out her own. To her right, Cullen fell into a seat with a sigh, shoulders slumped over and head hanging. Tense muscles spanned his back as she tried to soothe his stress with a delicate hand. His exhausted smile flashed for a brief second before he took the bowl of penne from Karris and dished out a portion for himself.

When he passed the bowl to Amallia, she spoke. “Do you want to … talk? Or should we wait until after dinner?”

He shook his head, eyes closing for but a moment. “No, better sooner than later,” he muttered as he took a piece of meat from the next platter. “To get right down to it, something is very wrong with this investigation. Poor case management, shoddy police work, evidence that meant nothing …”

“What do you mean?” Amallia asked when he failed to continue.

He handed her the platter before he began again. “We’re not sure. The reason I mention the evidence at all is because it appears that no forensic testing was performed on the bullet. Intentionally.”

“To what end?” Amodisia asked from across the table.

“Again, we can only speculate,” he sighed. “A video obtained from a cell phone shows the bullet was traveling at such an angle that the shooter was either a terrible shot, or … or …”

When his words failed him, Amodisia looked to Alistair for an answer. “Or what?”

His voice was dry, cracked like the earth in a desert. “Or the shooter was not trying to kill me.”

“Then,” Amallia stuttered, “who? Obviously not me, I got in the way …”

Cullen nodded, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder as he interjected. “Since everyone believed Alistair the target, the investigation never submitted the bullet for analysis. And we can’t even do that because nobody has the bullet or knows where it is.”

“Nobody has it?” Amodisia squeaked.

Alistair shook his head in dismay. “RPD doesn’t have it, Denerim forensics hasn’t seen hide nor hair of it, and the Wardens haven’t heard anything at the state. The bullet may as well not exist.”

Karris glared across the table from Dorian’s left as she took the plate of meat from him. “What did the video show?”

Cullen froze, fork half way to his mouth. For a moment, he remained there, thinking, and Amallia imagined that if she listened close enough, she could hear the gears of his mind churning. His fork returned to his plate with a soft _clink_ of metal on ceramic.

“What I’m about to tell you is incredibly sensitive information,” he began. “Our investigation thus far is limited and is, more likely than not, incorrect,” he paused once more, gaze falling across the table and lips parted as though he were unable to continue speaking.

The fine hairs on the back of her arm stood on end as the entire table tensed, jaws slowing and eyes glued to Cullen’s. His mouth closed, his words failing him once more, unwieldy and cumbersome on his tongue as he stuttered. With a frustrated sigh, his shoulders squared and his jaw set, he spoke.

“Sia was the target.”

Their silence rivaled the dead, frozen in their seats. Not a single body moved an inch, not a single muscle shifted. The very air held them as though they were encased in ice. A chill shuddered around the room, finding Amodisia first as she shook her head.

“Well, then,” she started, smoothing her napkin in her lap. “I realize that I’m the governor’s wife. I’m a likely target. But I must admit, this is the first serious attempt on my life. Is there anything we should do?”

Alistair took another plate, serving himself as he replied. “We have additional staff on surveillance for this building. The hotel will act as a decoy, not that we were going to stay there to begin with,” he spat with a wave of his hand. “And, until we find the person responsible, we’ll have to take extra precautions. I don’t want to cancel anything coming up. That would tip our hand.”

His wife nodded in agreement. “Alright,” she sighed. “I think that’s enough dreadful news for an evening. When did you two start dating?”

Dorian’s fork clattered with a rattling crash to his plate as her sister glared, wide-eyed across the table at her. Bull merely raised an eyebrow, seeming curious as to how she would respond, and Amallia choked on her wine, spluttering. She looked with a nervous eye to Cullen then back to Amodisia and Alistair, both of whom were grinning with smiles far too wide. She couldn’t lie. Not to them. But she was not about to let the sudden shift in discussion catch her off guard.

“Sia, you just found out that you might be the target of an attempted assassination, what the fu—”

Cullen’s comforting touch returned, the warmth of his large hand splaying between her shoulders. “They know, darling,” he sighed. “Everyone does.”

“ _Everyone_?” she asked, incredulous.

“Krem, Delrin, _Raleigh_ ,” he listed with a groan, “Ashara, Cole, the entire office will know in short order because of them. And I’m sure it’ll turn out to be some sort of silly Nightingale story.”

“What does any of this have to do with Leliana?” Amodisia piqued.

Cullen laughed, a soft chuckle under his breath. “No, the Nightingale _story_. Nurse falls in love with her patient? I’m sure Raleigh is already spreading rumors about how I saved you, Mal. That I nursed you back to health myself.”

“Of course, he is,” Amallia spat. “Fine, if everyone absolutely must know,” she continued, “Cullen _stalked_ me for about a year after we first …,” she paused, hesitating, grasping for the best way to put it. “... after we first met. And then he moved in across the hall from me at the beginning of October. He claims it was unintentional, but I’m not so sure I believe it.”

Cullen attempted to clarify, cheeks pink with embarrassment, though he smiled as their friends laughed. “It’s not like that,” he stuttered, but that only drew more laughter. “No, honestly, I swear! We just kept … running into each other. I don’t think I have ever bumped into another person as often as we did over the last year.”

Bull’s booming laughter calmed as he said, “Then it was meant to be.”

“Do you really believe that?” Dorian asked with a wistful gaze.

“Why not?” Bull replied. “I’ve seen it happen before. Sometimes, people are connected. It keeps drawing them back together, no matter how far apart they are.”

Karris nodded in agreement, swallowing her food before she spoke. “There’s something to be said about personalities that are drawn to others.”

Amallia gave Cullen a suspicious raise of an eyebrow. “What do you think? I’m not so sure I believe all of that.”

“If it makes me look like less of a creep, I’ll take it.”

Under her touch, the tension in Cullen’s back eased, running from him like water from a tap as laughter filled the room once more. Considering the staggering news from the investigation, Amallia wasn’t worried, either. She knew they would get to the bottom of it, their diligent minds and necessity for justice driving them ever onward. Though shocking, the possibility of Amodisia being the target abated much confusion, more than any other piece of evidence they’d managed to uncover in the last month.

When conversation continued in the same, lighthearted vein, Amallia eased in her seat, the last of her concern floating away like a leaf on the wind.


	53. To Confide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Alistair have a serious talk about Alitsair's concerns.

As the warmth of an after-dinner drink settled in his belly, Cullen stood and began gathering empty plates, but when Bull and Karris offered to take care of it, he acquiesced with a gracious smile. Turning to speak to Amallia, he found her deep in conversation with Amodisia, a concerned look on their friend’s face as they headed for the kitchen. Dorian followed, mumbling something about coffee with an awkward cough after eyeing the two men remaining in the dining room, leaving them alone.

That pleasant warmth bubbled up to a slow simmer as Cullen chanced a look at Alistair and found a frown of such consternation, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I need to tell you something,” Alistair began, a distinct waver to his voice. He motioned them to the edge of the dining room near a window.

“What is it?” Cullen asked as he rounded the table, reaching out with a careful hand to steady Alistair at his shoulder.

The setting sun reflecting off Lake Calenhad drew Alistair’s attention, his gaze lingering there until he could remain silent no longer. “There’s been some strange things going on in Denerim. In my office.”

Cullen snorted into his drink. “Alistair, I don’t think I want to know what happens in your office behind closed doors.”

“I’m trying to be serious, Cullen. Stop being a pervert for five minutes?” Alistair admonished, but his own smirk betrayed his tone. When Cullen nodded, he continued. “A couple people are acting … off.”

“Who?”

“Anora, for one,” he stuttered. “She’s noticed some of my snooping. But now she’s trying to help. And I’m afraid she’s going to get hurt,” Alistair noted. “What if … whoever tried to kill me – or Sia – tries to kill her?”

“That’s a bit of a leap, Ali,” Cullen admonished. “We’ve no evidence that would indicate any kind of event like that.”

“I know,” Alistair groaned, “but the more people that get involved … I’m just worried.” His eyes fell to the window once more, glazing over as he stared at the orange glow of the lake.

“Anybody else?” Cullen urged him on.

“Yes,” Alistair drawled, “except it might just be my imagination. That I’m jumping at shadows because of the situation and I’m just making it up so it fits the puzzle. It was one conversation, it probably meant nothing.”

“Then why are you telling me this?” Cullen asked.

“Because I just wanted someone else to know. In case something happens,” Alistair huffed with a roll of his eyes. “Forget it, Anora will be fine. Election is coming up next year. I don’t think I’m going to run again.”

For a moment, Cullen gaped, words stuck in his throat. “Why?”

Another derisive roll of his golden eyes preceded his thoughts. “I can’t handle it anymore. It was a ridiculous idea to begin with but I thought I could make a difference in Ferelden.”

“You have,” Cullen insisted with a reaffirming squeeze of Alistair’s arm. “Seriously, the state hasn’t been in better shape in a few decades.”

“Sure,” Alistair abided. “But, now all I’m doing is worrying about Sia’s safety. The attempt on her life—”

“Suspected attempt,” Cullen clarified.

“Whatever,” Alistair snapped with a wave of his hand. “Being shot at really puts things into perspective. And I don’t think I want to do this anymore. Constantly risking my neck for a system that has displayed little to no gratitude? And now my wife’s life is at risk because of me? I know Sia is stronger than I am a thousand times over, but all it takes is one bullet, and one almost found her last spring …”

His thought faded as Amallia returned from the kitchen bearing two plates of pie. “And what are you two doing in here all alone? Behaving, I hope?”

“I was taking advantage of your boyfriend,” Alistair jested much to Cullen’s embarrassment. “I’m jealous.”

“Alistair,” Cullen groaned. “Stop it.”

“ _Alistair, stop it_. No, I won’t,” Alistair continued as he leaned into Amallia and whispered. “Do you know he’s got an eight—”

“Alistair!” Cullen shouted, a mortified blush tingling in his cheeks.

“Oh, I suppose she knows that already,” Alistair drawled on as he turned for the living room. “I don’t blame you, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off him, either.”

When he was out of earshot, Cullen took Amallia by the hand and pulled her close. “He doesn’t mean that. He was just joking. He does it on purpose because he knows it’ll get a rise out of me.”

“How long?” she asked.

Maker, what was she talking about? “How long what?”

The roll of her eyes rivaled Alistair’s. “I’ve noticed the way you look at him. So fond, so smitten. And when you talk about him you can’t stop grinning.”

He pursed his lips into a thin line, frustrated that he’d be caught. “So? He’s my friend,” he said with a casual shrug, eyes glued to his plate of pie.

“So? How long have you been attracted to him?”

How she managed to read him like an open book, he would never know. With a resigned sigh, he took a bite of pie before speaking. “Years. Since we first met when I transferred to Calenhad University. But he was already with Sia. So, I kept it to myself.”

“Always the gentleman,” Amallia quipped.

“It doesn’t … does it bother you?”

Amallia scowled. “No. Why would it? You know about Sia and I. And I’m with you, now.”

“I still … I’m still very much attracted to him,” he admitted.

“And I care for Sia no less than the day I left for Orlais,” Amallia added. “Something tells me she feels the same.”

“I doubt Alistair feels the same way,” he continued through another bite of pie.

She scoffed with an incredulous laugh. “Alistair flirts with you whenever you’re together,” she jested. “You’re not _that_ oblivious, are you?”

Maker, was he? Cullen shook his head, unable to think straight. With the investigation heavy on his shoulders and the safety of his friends in jeopardy, Alistair’s attraction to him should have been the least of his concerns.

And yet, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts drift as he stared across the living room to where the man stood, auburn hair cropped short, forever sun-kissed skin glowing, and golden brown eyes glinting with a toothy grin as he spoke with his wife and Dorian. Whether minutes or seconds past, Cullen cared not one whit, his gaze consumed by infatuation.

“Should I start a cold shower?” Amallia muttered as she blocked his view, shielding him from the rest of the room.

With a shake of his head, the constriction of fabric tightening at his groin drew Cullen’s attention downward. Half aroused, he coughed through his last bite of pie. “Shit, take this.” He shoved his plate into Amallia’s hands and he thanked the Maker with a silent prayer that she took it without question as he darted for the bathroom.


	54. Playlist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia, Cassandra, and Sera talk shop, with a little plot at the end.

“Nah, Mal, it’s like this,” Sera started. “You open with a _bang_.” Her hands met in a thunderous clap. “You keep up the pace with the second bit.” She spun her fingers around in fast, tiny circles. “Then you dial it back, yeah? Ease ‘em down, let ‘em get comfy for a few.” A devious grin hooked her smile. “Then … _wham!_ You hit ‘em again with another ballbuster.”

Cassandra and Amallia stared, Sera giggling at her explanation. She wasn’t wrong. It was a tried and true formula of the stage. The hard part was finding the perfect songs to fill the empty page before her.

“So, we do like we did on the old set,” Amallia began. “Right?”

Sera nodded. “Righ', so, Priest. But we should shake it up a bit, don’t want to be all predictable-like,” she said. “Maybe … what do you think about movin’ Ratt up in the list?”

Amallia sat back on the couch, pen tapping her lips, thinking. A tray of food sat on the coffee table before her, enough to feed five, but between the three of them, they would clean it. Cassandra ate enough for three people, living at the gym, and Amallia could put away a portion and a half. Somehow, Sera’s tiny frame managed the same, although Amallia did not know how.

“Mal?”

A disgusted grunted was her reply, followed by a shake of her head. It was the only part of running a cover band that she disliked; building the perfect set list from the ground up was no easy feat. “Ratt, then?” she asked. “How about _Cum On Feel the Noise_? Got some good lines, it’ll keep the crowd moving.”

Cassandra nodded in agreement. “It's an easy one to play, too. Won’t take much to learn. Which Priest tune did you have in mind, Sera?”

Giddy with eagerness, Sera bounced in her seat. “ _You've Got Another Thing Comin'_.”

“Perfect opener,” Amallia replied. “Yeah, that'll be a good one-two punch.” Cassandra and Sera nodded their agreement.

With the opener and follow-up decided, Amallia jotted them down, centered at the top of the page in a tattered notebook. Previous pages were full of music, of chord progressions and melodies, of lyrics and rhythms, simple to the complex and everything in between. Amallia carried it with her everywhere, jotting down the disjointed ideas she always. It was a memory bank of sorts, a safe space to retain the thoughts extracted from her mind to make room for new ideas.

She considered her options then, wondering. There were so many songs tumbling through her mind, and they seemed to be following a theme, something specific guiding her thoughts, though should she could not corner the idea.

Amallia laughed with excitement as she clapped, focus improving and so full of possibilities. “Alright, how about some Heart? Magic Man?”

Sera stuck out her tongue and blew a resounding raspberry. “Piss on that, _Crazy On You_ is loads better, yeah?”

“You are correct, as always,” Amallia said with a chuckle as she flipped to a new page and jotted down the song. “What else? What about Billy Squire? .38 Special? Bob Seger? Triumph? Styx? Great White?”

“Too soon!” Sera shouted, flailing on the couch.

“Sera, that was thirteen years ago,” Cassandra noted flatly.

The other woman rolled her eyes. “So? Still too soon.”

With admonishing snort and a roll of her eyes, Amallia stood and made for the kitchen as she said, “Focus, guys, think of some songs. Want anything?”

“Beer. You said Bob Seger?” Cassandra called from the living room.

Amallia opened the refrigerator and withdrew three beers, tearing away their caps with the door hook. “Yeah, I think he might have one or two that would work.”

“Might?” Cassandra asked in surprise as she returned to the living room. “ _Night Moves_?”

Amallia thought for a second as she handed Cassandra her drink. When Sera took hers without question, Amallia smirked as she said, “See, I knew he had one.” A quick scribble added it to the second list. “How about _Need You Tonight_?”

“Oh, Maker, yeah, more INXS please,” Sera groaned and Amallia added it to the second list as Cassandra snorted into her beer with a laugh.

Their planning continued well into the afternoon, the second sheet of paper filling front and back, three columns worth of songs on each side. Impressed with the potential, Amallia scribbled a note atop the page in a tidy script – _make a new playlist_ _for Cullen_. By the time Cassandra and Sera left, a new set list sat on the table, one song shy of complete, needing the perfect closer.

Returning their mess from the living room to the kitchen, she was relieved to find she had at least half an hour before Cullen would be leaving the office. That gave her plenty of time to tidy up after her guests. In the living room, she picked up her phone from the coffee table and the screen flared to life with a touch of her finger.

The receiver _clicked_ , her phone connecting to it as the speakers crackled. For cleaning, Amallia selected a preferred playlist of classic rock, and _Don’t Fear the Reaper_ started the shuffled mix.

With the living room cleaned and the kitchen back in order, Amallia gave the bathroom a once over and dusted the studio room with a promise to return to it the next day. Another movie score was around the corner and she would need to get started on it soon.

Working her way from top to bottom, the last thing that required her attention was the dark hardwood floors. _Baby, Hold On_ began as the vacuum roared to life, and Amallia turned the volume up. Starting in her bedroom, she worked her way to the front of the apartment, dancing and singing along to the music roaring over the sound of the vacuum. _Swingtown, All Right Now, Runnin’ With The Devil,_ and _Lay It On the Line_ all passed before she finished the dining room and kitchen, returning to the last space left in the living room.

Van Halen found her there with _Dance the Night Away,_ though she could hear it only just. When the chorus kicked in, drums and guitar blasting from the speakers, she sang, bobbing her head along as she cleaned. With each verse, she neared the edge of the space, maneuvering around the couch and tables and chairs until she turned back towards the center of the room.

With the vacuuming finished, Amallia stowed the vacuum and headed for the kitchen, a delightful treat awaiting her in the fridge. There, she swung the door wide to reveal the remainder of a chocolate cake from her birthday, something she’d managed to avoid devouring all on her own lest Cassandra berate her sluggishness at the gym.

Sliced and served on a plate, she turned to face the large window across the living room, watching the setting sun over Lake Calendhad. Glittering orange and fiery trees – some bare, their leaves abandoned – rippled in the breeze. Another song shuffled on her phone, _Gimme All Your Lovin’_ s driving beat spurring her head and hip into motion.

The sumptuous, fluffy cake melted on her tongue, her eyes rolling closed as she consumed the first bite. She licked the fork clean of the frosting, savoring every bit she could. With a meticulous hand, she carved another bite, swaying from side to side as the music shifted once more to _Everybody Wants You_.

The sun met the golden waters of Lake Calenhad in a few short minutes, sinking in rapid descent below the horizon. Pink and purple colored the clouds above, relinquishing the sky to the dusky hues of blue and black as the sun continued. More Van Halen accompanied her, _Beautiful Girls_ starting with its catchy guitar.

As she took another bite of her cake, something shifted behind her, the very air pressure heavier with another’s presence and she spun about in shock. There at the end of the foyer stood Cullen, doubled over with laughter. Amallia set her plate on the counter with a hard _clack_ and withdrew her phone, silencing the music with a swipe of her thumb.

Cullen _cackled_. For once, his face was red not with embarrassment but with a joy that sucked the air from his lungs. And though it was at her expense, Amallia couldn’t resist the sound of his mirth, laughing through the last bite of her cake.

He crossed the space between them in three long strides, embracing her in a hug that consumed her with ease. Embarrassment buried her face in the crook of his shoulder and he soothed her with a stroke of her back, though he still laughed, a soft hum deep in his chest.

“I needed that,” he whispered.

She snorted a derisive sound in response. “Great, glad my private moments are good for a laugh.”

“Oh, give me a break,” he groaned as he held her out at arm’s length. “Look at yourself. You’re half naked and you were dancing and eating cake. What’s not to love?”

“I’m _not_ half naked,” she shot back as she considered her clothes. A bare midriff between her sports bra and runner’s shorts disagreed with her. “Alright, fine, half naked then. But it was appropriate for what I was doing,” she finished with a firm nod of her head.

“Dancing?” he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

She had a retort ready, it was there, right on the tip of her tongue, but the warmth of his hands slipped from the small of her back down to her ass and _squeezed_. All that came out of her parted lips was a short whimper, unable to form any words, let alone a coherent thought.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he replied, lips brushing hers as he leaned in for a kiss.

Their embrace lasted an eternity every time, whether their kiss lasted two seconds or two minutes, every single one of them felt like a million years. And when they parted, she ached for more, wondering how they would manage their promise any longer.

“I could use your help,” Cullen muttered, his hands returning to the small of her back.

“We promised,” she groaned as he stroked along her spine, bare skin breaking out in gooseflesh.

Cullen’s sigh felt like a warm summer breeze along her neck. “With the case.”

“Oh,” she grunted. “I suppose that would distract us well enough. Your place?”

A shiver replaced his warmth as he parted from her, heading for the door. “I’ll cook. Bring the rest of that cake over?”

“It’s a date.”


	55. Settling the Score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain meets with an accomplice at a dive bar.

After half an hour sitting alone in a darkened booth of the bar, Loghain fumed. He’d have left after five minutes if their situation was not so precarious, so dire. With the bastard poking his nose into business better left alone, Anora’s fragile state, and now his detectives being questioned, something must be done without a moment’s delay. And yet, there he sat, waiting once more. Always waiting, biding his time for the perfect moment. Haste never solved problems.

Patrons of the bar came and went, some lingering like he had, others sharing a pint and traipsing back into the night. Lovers, friends, and co-workers alike filled the spaces, the booths and tables and chairs along the bar, until not a single one remained. His server returned after an absence stretching far too long, and when he waved her away without ordering anything again, she put on her best smile but rolled eyes all the same as she turned away.

It was another hour before Loghain spotted the small blonde man push through the door, stopping to greet the bar tender and order a drink. He took his bloody time, leaning against the polished wood as he chatted with a young woman beside him who, within a matter of sentences traded between them, shrugged on her coat. With his drink filled, the man paid and gave the young woman a quick word before heading for the booth in which Loghain huddled.

Before he spoke, he sipped from his straw, a long pull of a fruitful concoction draining a quarter of the large glass. “I apologize for my tardiness, but I had to ensure I was not followed.”

Loghain stretched his neck, straining against the roll of the man’s accented tongue as it crawled up his spine. Why had he ever contacted the Crows? “Were you?” Loghain asked as he glared across the table where the young man sat.

A flat stare of admonishment met his glare head on. “What do you want, Mr. Mac Tir?” Another pull from his straw nearly emptied the glass.

 _Fucking Antivans._ “You failed and yet I paid you to _complete_ a very specific task,” Loghain began. “Finish the job.” He stood to leave the booth, but something sharp met his inner thigh before he moved an inch.

“You must think me a fool,” the Antivan started with a _tsk_ of his tongue. “Such a shame. We could have been proper business partners. But then you threatened me, hinted that you would rob me blind, and that you would kill me if the need should arise. I don’t take kindly to threats.”

Frozen to his seat, Loghain snarled like a cornered dog. “I _paid_ you!” he hissed. “You owe me a job _completed_.”

The young man smiled a toothy grin that failed to reach his eyes. “That would be the case if you had not lied to me about the job, Mr. Mac Tir. You told me to be at a certain place at a certain time and to kill a person that would be standing at a specific spot in the plaza. Do you know why I even showed up?”

The man spoke far too much for his liking. It had been a terrible idea to meet in person and worse yet, Loghain was pinned to his seat by a fucking knife. When he failed to respond, the blade dug deeper, cutting through the fabric of his slacks.

“You cheat!” Loghain hissed. “I _paid_ you.”

“You paid me to kill a person you assured me no one would miss. Unfortunately for you, I disagreed with that opinion.” The blade withdrew as the man stood, rounding the edge of the table as a flash of silver disappeared up his long sleeves. Quick as a snake, he leaned in, like an intimate partner to whisper a lascivious secrete into a lover’s ear. “Good day, Mr. Mac Tir. You’re on your own.”

The blonde man turned on his heel and returned to the bar, draining the rest of his drink and returning the glass to the bartender. The young woman with which he had spoken earlier bid her friends goodnight, linked arms with the Antivan, and the two strolled through the door, not another thought given to the dark man glowering all alone in his booth.


	56. Spaces in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Amallia continue to go over evidence, but accomplish very little.

Two hours later, Cullen and Amallia sat at the small table in the office of his apartment. Long stretches of silence filled the time, nothing but the shifting of papers and tired sighs breaking up the monotony. Staring so long at the same pieces of evidence, she had gone cross-eyed, unable to focus. But when Cullen pushed back from the table with a disgusted scoff, she startled.

“There’s something about this I can’t shake, Mal.”

Across the table, she was unable to see what he had been staring at for the last half hour. She stood and neared him, leaning over his shoulder and arms draping down his chest, smoothing the fabric of his shirt as they considered the document together.

“This has to mean something,” she agreed. “I wonder if the police could subpoena the banks for these account numbers. Figure out who they belong to and then question these now handsomely rich folks.”

Cullen grunted, a hand cradling his head with his elbow propped up on the office table. “I can hardly make sense of it. All the money is moving into a select few accounts. And the rest are completely foreign to me. None of them are on the government contract list Alistair gave me. And they’re not on the list of politician accounts either. I suspect _that_ list is woefully incomplete. Why, _how_ is this document even a part of this investigation?”

She nodded with each of his thoughts, her cheek pressed to his. “All the right questions, but I’m afraid I lack the answers.”

Amallia swore she could feel the churning of gears in his brain as her fingers carded through his hair. When it was apparent that, without the proper distraction, they would be up to their eyeballs in evidence through most of the night, she pressed closer, the warmth of his neck against hers breaking out gooseflesh across her skin. A tank top had served well in covering her midriff, but the low neckline left a fair bit of chest exposed.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, seeming to speak to himself. “Alistair wouldn’t say it outright over the phone. Last week, he called me to talk about how the investigation was going. Something was off, but I couldn’t tell what. I still can’t put my finger on it.” He paused, his cheek rasping against hers as he looked to the paper again. “Why would they include _this_? It doesn’t … do you think it has anything to do with the shooting? At all?”

Amallia rounded his chair for her own, drawing it beside his and taking a seat. Leaning forward until she was an inch from his face, his earthy, masculine scent filled her nose. The swift movement drew his eyes up to meet hers, understanding coloring his cheeks.

“Mal,” he sighed as she drew closer between his thighs.

“Yes, Mr. Rutherford?” she purred, the gape of his lips and hitch of his breath heating her skin. A shiver spread from his fingertips at the nape of her neck, his hand slipping into her hair, and she leaned into his touch, warm and tender.

“You know this –” a grunt of a moan interrupted his thought as Amallia stroked along the insides of both thighs, firm grasp smoothing over the snug fabric of his suit pants. Higher and higher, her hands slipped ever closer until she was a scant inch from his core.

“I want you,” she whispered. “Maker help me, the dreams I have had these last few weeks …” she continued, fingers skipping over the growing bulge of his groin to pry at his belt. “Please, Cullen.”

The ache that coursed through her entire body screamed out in protest when sure, strong hands enveloped hers and pulled them up to the hard expanse of his chest. She looked up to find a pained expression on his face, _Maker_ , his beautiful face, with fiery amber eyes and lush lips and …

That scar.

 _Maker’s breath_.

“How did it happen?”

The question contorted his face into a study of confusion, then softened as he drew her into his lap. She followed without resistance, settling in close as large arms wrapped around her waist.

“How did what happen, pup?”

She had to touch it, feel it beneath her fingers. Her lips and tongue knew that rent in his skin well, but her fingers had yet to explore it. Soft stubble – he always seemed to wear his day’s growth of stubble with pride – gave way to taut skin, smooth and shining.

And then he flinched away. Startled by his sudden movement, Amallia pulled back, terrified that she had hurt him somehow. His fingertips bit into her hips, arms clinging her to his chest as if she were some sort of anchor to reality as his eyes glazed over with a glassy, distant stare.

A deep breath expanded his chest, in through his nose and out through his mouth. His gaze lingered, too long and too distant, seeing something else, some _time_ else.

“Cullen,” she whispered as she cupped his cheek. “We’re in Redcliffe. We’re in your apartment. It’s … ten o’clock at night. Fifteenth of November. Year 20:16.”

The lids of his eyes fluttered as his vision cleared and a small frown curled down the corners of his lips. His forehead met hers with a sigh as he said, “Thank you, Mal.” Another exasperated breath dragged from his lungs. “I got the scar in Kirkwall. It was a … dark time in that city. I left the military the first opportunity that came along.”

Kirkwall. Thank the Maker she had managed to miss out on _that_ disaster. Grad school had kept her far from the city. “I imagine you’ve talked about this with someone?”

“I have a therapist,” he nodded. “Who I haven’t seen in several weeks, now that I think about it.” He shifted in his chair, holding her closer. “You know, it’s his fault I went to that benefit dinner last December.”

Intrigued, Amallia leaned back to look him in the eye. Warm smile and even warmer eyes met her gaze head on, and she smiled in return. “Sounds like he knows what he’s talking about,” she whispered as she stroked his cheek. “Are you sure we’ve not waited long enough? The more we talk and the more I learn about you, the more I struggle to resist.”

His glowing smile turned to frustrated frown. “I know, Mal, believe me. I feel the same way. But, it’s barely been a month,” he replied. “I’m … scared.”

Maker, but his voice broke her heart. “What are you scared of?” she asked. What could possibly keep him at arm’s length from her any longer?

“Mostly myself. I’m afraid of … what you’ll find if you get much closer,” he stuttered, eyes cast aside. “Like what you just saw.”

Her arms wrapped around the back of his neck, hugging him close. “Cullen, I’ve seen PTSD before. I know what it does to people. Karris and I have discussed it at long length. I’m here for you, however it may manifest. I am here for you.”

Another soft, relieved sigh brushed along her neck. “Thank you. You have no idea what that means to me,” he muttered.

Minutes ticked by as they sat in silence, but it was not long before Amallia squirmed in his arms, his breath hot on her skin. It might have been the constant rub of his fingers at her hips and thigh, or the way he continued to nuzzle her, keeping her so close for his own comfort. And then the short, impatient breaths came, his chest rising and falling in a quick, steady rhythm as he moaned into her flesh.

Aching breasts met the flat expanse of his chest as she straddled his hips, the distinct bulge of his groin rubbing, teasing at her core. Her fingers carded through his hair as she drew his lips to hers, a soft meeting, tender, but with a hint of need, a flash of greedy insistence. It lasted for a second and an eternity, lingering as his hands pulled her hips, pressing hard against him and arms snaking around her back to envelope her. When they parted, she spoke, voice low and full of lust.

“I love you.”

Foreheads met once more as Cullen sighed a frustrated sound. “And I you.” From their embrace, he eyed the table littered with documents. “But I need to get back to this.

“Ah,” she agreed as she stood. “A distraction. Good idea. See you tomorrow?” she asked as she leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“Absolutely.”


	57. The Demons You Create

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen tries to relieve a little stress but only makes things worse for himself. Sort of.

Raw lust coursed through his veins as Cullen paced his room several hours later, unable to sleep. His skin tingled and his heart thrummed in his chest, mind racing to match. He could solve the problem with ease. She was right there across the hall. They were adults, dammit. Grown-ass adults. They could handle it. 

And yet, as he stopped beside his bed, eyeing the pillow shoved against the opposite wall, Cullen seethed with a need so tainted with doubt, it frightened him.

What if she didn’t enjoy it? What if he did not pleasure her enough? What if the first time had been a fluke, some sort of happy coincidence, never to repeat itself again?

What if she disappeared again?

Shivering, lightheaded and dizzy, the arousal that strained against his boxer briefs ached for release. As if it had been months, years, since the last time he felt any satisfaction, the throbbing of his flesh between his thighs flared hotter than ever. His body forgot he had relieved himself yesterday, not even twenty-four hours ago.

As Cullen knelt on his bed, sheets smooth against his skin, an unsteady breath dragged from his chest. A tentative touch brushed along the bulge of his boxers and another shiver coursed down his spine. But the thought of taking himself in hand? Oh, it got the job done, to be sure, but it hardly felt amazing. 

Like her. 

The waist band of his boxers hooked into his thumb as he pulled the front down and the heavy weight of his erection bobbed, freed. Darkness engulfed him as he closed his eyes and grasped the pillow tight in one hand, the shaft of his cock in the other. An absent stroke sucked the air from his lungs and behind lids shut tight, Cullen could see her, clear as day, lying before him.

Ready.

Between the bed and the pillow, he centered the tip and submitted to his fantasy.  A quick roll of his hips plunged his length in, but the pillow and the mattress served a paltry imitation. Both fists pinned the pillow to the bed, tightening, pressing, squeezing him.

Just like her.

Except woefully not.

His hips picked up speed as he thrust, grunts and sighs filling the air as he sought his end. He heard her voice, her undeniable song that was his name on her lips. He echoed her, his pleasure too loud to contain.

“ _Amallia_.”

More, he needed more, needed _her_ , there, with him, taking him until he could stand it no longer. The hot rush of release unraveled in his core, seeping through his skin as his thrusts grew erratic, the bed shaking with each pump of his hips and the headboard rapping a dull thud on the wall with each motion.

“ _Fuck_ , Amallia.” Racing to his end, Cullen thrust as hard and fast as he could, body a tingling mess of pleasure. Maker, but even the mere _thought_ of her, naked on his bed, breasts bouncing as she moved with him, and her body flexing as she writhed, moaned, screamed, _yes, Cullen, yes, fuck me, yes!_

Release, sweet and desperate, found him. His body shuttered as he moaned his own cry of ecstasy and long white ropes of his cum shot across the pillow. He pitched forward as he caught himself on one hand, the other grasping the base of his shaft, small strokes extracting every last ounce of pleasure possible. Another moan burst from his lips as one more spurt of his seed sprayed from the tip, the last vestiges of his arousal a mess on the pillow before him.

Maker, what was _wrong_ with him? Disgust filled his stomach, replacing the euphoric rush of pleasure in an instant. Cullen shoved the pillow away, righted his boxers, and collapsed on his chest, face buried in the clean pillow at the head of the bed to mute his scream of frustration. It was terrible, the way he used her in his mind. She was more than that, _far_ more. She meant the world to him. And yet, the way he treated her in his fantasies as of late, he worried she would run the moment she learned his true nature.

It was mere moments before Cullen fell asleep, but rest would not find him that night. Dreams of the fears that plagued his conscious mind manifested each in their own way, some hidden, stalking in the shadows. Others taunted him outright, teasing him, torturing him as they lulled him into a false sense of safety only to tear him from that dream, away from her.

He awoke in a furious sweat far too early in the small hours of the night. The last nightmare had used her face, seduced him, loved him.

Then he was trapped and left alone with his demons.

Abandoned.

Just like she had done to him.

He tore the sticking sheets away from his body and rose from the bed, the cold hardwood floor beneath less than steady feet a momentary relief. Those unsteady limbs carried him to his front door and it swung wide in a rush of cool air, then shut with a resounding slam. Three paces across the hall, his clenched fist flew up to pound a furious beat on her door, but stopped a mere inch away.

What was he doing? It was nearly four in the morning. Why wake her? To soothe his tormented mind? He wasn’t her responsibility. Maker, how stupid he had been to believe she would put up with his mental health – or lack thereof. Who would? His family tolerated him at best, avoided his glassy stare at worst. And the friends he had left turned a blind but knowing eye when his demons returned, unannounced and unwelcome. 

Fucking Templars. Fucking _lyrium_. Dreams shattered to pieces, the Templars had been nothing like the stories he had heard as a child. No valor, no honor, no justice. Glorified infantry, glorified _prison keepers_. They had taken everything he had, everything he knew and held dear and tore it away, replacing it with cold steel and _prejudice_ and addiction and –

 _Amallia_.

Cullen shook his head, the vision crowding, brimming, overflowing his mind with her. The door of her apartment stood wide, the threshold framing her like a work of art. Her hair sat atop her head in a high pony tail, the end brushing a bare shoulder, and a dark satin robe clung to her frame in a vain attempt to maintain her modesty.

Modesty, in Cullen’s opinion, could fuck right off.

“I uh … heard your door slam,” she stuttered as she looked him once over. A hint of concern narrowed her eyes a fraction as she asked, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he croaked, voice raw and cracked. Had he screamed? The rasp, the burning itch in his throat suggested as much. And the pained, pitying frown that turned down her lips said more than words could. It sickened him to see that look on her face.

“Cullen, come—”

“Never mind,” he interjected, retreating. How absurd of him to assume she would even want to see him.

Long and nimble fingers grasped his wrist before he took half a step. Seized so, he froze, still as stone until she spoke, sweet voice naught but a whisper.

“Stay. Please.”

Stay.

She wanted him, wanted him to stay with her. Andraste’s flaming knickers, he didn’t deserve her. Not some broken shell of a man. Why did she care so much?

“I shouldn’t—”

The soft pull at his wrist cut him off. “Talk to me, sweetheart. I told you earlier, I’m here for you.” The cool tips of her free hand met the scalding flesh of his stomach, muscles twitching, responding, as if to call out for more, more of her, more of what soothed him unlike anything else before her.

The pity he had seen not a moment earlier had vanished. When he looked back to her, he found nothing but love, small smile she reserved for him glowing in the dim hallway light. She sighed a breath of relief at his nod and Cullen followed her through the door.

She led him down the hall to her room, darkness engulfing them as the front door shut with a soft _snict._ Though he could not see, Amallia guided him, fingers in his hand, and he followed without worry. In her room, she sat him at the edge of her bed and switched on the soft lamp beside the table.

“Now,” she started as she headed towards the bathroom. “What has you up at four in the morning and ready to break down my door?”

Panic welled in his chest. What could he say? _I’m sorry, Mal, I fucked a pillow and imagined it was you because I want that again so badly it aches_. Of course not.

Suffocating, the room pressed in until he couldn’t breathe, rapid gasps for air too little. Hunched over his legs, Cullen grasped his thighs, nails biting into the flesh until it stung. Then the faded nightmares returned, vague memories that felt as real as the bed upon which he sat. The demon, the woman that seduced him, stood before him once more with the key to his prison, ready to lock him away once more.

Feet appeared between his, long toes lacquered a bright pink matching flush skin. Ankles, supple calves, and knees gave way to thick, muscled thighs, and where the hem of her robe ought to be, Cullen found more of Amallia’s luscious legs.

Black, flower-patterned cotton wrapped around her hips, and Cullen drank her in, allowing himself to devour her. Absent hands reached out of their own volition to touch, to feel, to hold, to convince himself that the amazing woman standing before him was real, the demon nothing but a figment of his imagination.

Warm, smooth, and firm, his fingertips explored her curves as his eyes continued to roam. Over the lean swell of her hips and up to the narrow of her waist, he gazed until he found her breasts and stopped. There was no one feature of Amallia’s that he liked most; if anything, her personality far outranked her physical appearance. But at that moment, so ridden with lust and desire, Cullen could not tear his eyes away from her chest. His hands smoothed over her hips and past her stomach to cup both breasts with firm, greedy fingers.

The soft gasp that fell from her parted lips was more than enough to draw his attention to her face, a lesson in ecstasy. Her chest heaved beneath his touch, and she whimpered as he rolled her peaks to taut buds.

“Mal,” he whispered, begged. “Please?”

In an instant, she was in his lap, straddling his hips. Damp core met straining bulge as the skin of their bodies met, and Cullen cried out with his own moan of desire.

Through baited breath she whispered, “We promised.” Another faint moan fell from her lips as his thumbs rolled over her nipples again. “Oh, but I want you to stay.”

“I know,” he groaned. “That’s why I’m worried.”

Her writhing halted, blazing blue eyes snapping open to consider him as her hands smoothed along his arms. “Frightened of what?”

Falling from her breasts, his hands returned to her hips, thumbs rubbing over her smooth skin. “What if it’s … not …”

Impish, Amallia grinned. “Worried you won’t live up to our standard?”

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Cullen laughed. “Among other things, yes,” he muttered with a sheepish smile. “I just don’t want to lose you again. I don’t think I could handle that …”

Her smile faded, replaced by a pained frown. “I’ll never do that to you again, Cullen. Ever.”

His roiling lust cooled, ebbing until it was a dull ache behind his ears. Pulling her close, their foreheads touched as his eyes closed. “I know. I’m sorry I’ve woken you. I should go …”

“I meant it when I asked you to stay,” she admonished, fingertips rubbing small circles on his scalp as they slipped into his hair, soothing the ache further. “You don’t have to go.”

So inviting, loving, as always. A frustrated sigh burst from his chest. “I want to stay. I do. But I don’t know if I can … I want you so much it fucking hurts, Mal.”

She squirmed in his embrace, a hum of arousal floating to his ears. “We’ve managed it before. I think we can handle it again. Although,” she leaned back, eyeing him. “Should we … pick a date?”

A date. Upon which they would allow themselves to have sex with each other. As silly as it sounded, the longer he thought on it, the better it sounded.

Cullen grinned as he grasped Amallia by her backside and stood up. She squeaked in surprise, arms holding him tight, though it was unnecessary. He held her to his chest as he knelt on the bed, lowering her down to the mattress with her head on her pillow. Leaving one thick thigh between hers and his forearms supporting his weight, Cullen leaned over her, relishing the sight of her nakedness beneath him.

He hesitated for a moment, reeling, reveling at his luck. Then he lied down his side, curling in close to her, legs entwined. Her smooth skin beneath his fingers rivaled that of any fabric, and her clean, pure scent of ocean and earth put the most fragrant of perfumes to shame.

“Let’s give it another couple of months,” he suggested. “As much as I don’t want to draw this out, I think the new year might be a good goal. And hopefully, by then, the investigation will be done.”

Cool fingertips drew lazy circles on his chest, a thumb teasing at a nipple. “Two more months?” she pouted. “Do you think we can make it that long?” she sighed with an impatient roll of her hips.

“Not if you keep doing that,” he moaned with his own subconscious undulation of his core. “Maker’s breath, especially not if you keep doing that.”

“December, then?” she asked. “I think we could manage one more month. Two is just setting us up for failure.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and hugged her close, bodies flush, his lips brushing hers. “True. December then. One more month.”

“You’re not helping, either,” she whispered.

He laughed a soft sound through his nose as he nuzzled her ear, kissing and nipping. “I know,” he muttered, “I’m sorry, but you’re irresistible.”

“And you’re sin on two legs,” she replied as she squirmed from his embrace. “One more month?”

He considered her, blue eyes smoldering in the yellow glow of lamp light. Then he nodded, agreeing. “One more month.”

With a flick of her fingers, the lamp shut off, and she returned to his side, snuggling close. “G’night, Cullen.”

He wrapped his arm over her waist once more and pulled her in tight.

“Good night, Mal.”


	58. Premiere Primer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia is officially invited to the premiere of Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that, though Ferelden is a “state” in this AU, it’s still the size of a country and operates very much like one out of necessity, as do the other “states” in Thedas. So to compare Ferelden to say, the US (since I live in the US and it’s the easiest frame of reference for me), Denerim is akin to New York and Redcliffe is akin to Los Angeles, though the analogy is far from perfect geographically. Thus, the premiere is taking place in Redcliffe.

The first snowfall of the season dumped a foot of fluffy precipitation on Redcliffe, coating the city in white. Bright shafts of Friday morning light slanted between the shades of her studio window as Amallia scribbled another edit on overfilled piece of sheet music. Another project meant more work, and she was determined to remain ahead of schedule.

In the darkest hour before dawn, Amallia had risen, starting a pot of coffee and eating a large bowl of fruit before burying herself in her music. There was something about those earlier hours of the morning, so silent and serene her thoughts were clear, focused, deliberate. But after three hours of staring at the page permeated with graphite, and plodding through each phrase on the piano, she was drained of all inspiration. And to be honest, the main piece was in fine shape, ready for composition and instrumentation; except Amallia would not settle for anything less than perfection.

A fresh ray of sunlight brightened the shafts of sunlight across the black and white keys before her, drawing her attention away from her craft. She stood from the piano bench and leaned over the piano to draw the curtains aside, peering over the city below. She reached for her third cup of coffee, bringing it to her lips as she scanned the trees of the nearby park. Tiny dots of varying colors shuffled through the snow, some on snowshoes, others on cross country skis. To the rear of the park, a makeshift ice rink stood, complete with temporary bleachers and light poles for night skating.

Her phone chirruped in her pocket, the chime of an incoming email. Withdrawing the device and unlocking it with a swipe of her thumb, she clicked the notification and scanned the email with a quick eye. Figures. She’d been warned the invitation would be delayed. The premiere of _Inquisition_ was a mere thirteen hours away and her official invitation had arrived in that email. Unofficially, the movie’s director – Solas – had invited her weeks ago, but he had instructed her to wait for his message to plan for it.

And so, she’d waited. Weeks had passed in that time, and though he’d warned her not to plan on it, she had.

Warmth enveloped her as a firm hand slipped over her hip and a thick arm wrapped around her waist. “Good morning, pup,” Cullen greeted as he dotted a trail of kisses along her neck.

She would never tire of hearing that. “Morning,” she replied. “Is your tux clean?”

“It is,” he stated, the frown on his face audible. “Why?”

She held her phone up for him to see. “I’m officially invited to the movie premiere. No plans, right?”

With a nod, he spoke, breath warm against the skin of her shoulder. “Other than working on the investigation, I only wanted to spend time with you,” he muttered into the crook of her neck. “Was hoping you could help me a bit more. Or distract me. Or both.”

She laughed a loud burst of sound as he nuzzled her further, pulling her tight to his chest. When her mirth subsided, she turned to find him nearly naked but for his usual boxer briefs. The sight of him naked, broad shoulders and trim waist and long legs, sent a shiver down her spine.

“Do you ever wear clothes? How are you not freezing?” she asked, rubbing her bare arms. She had _stolen_ – so he claimed – his Calenhad University t-shirt and plaid pajama pants earlier that week, spending most nights in his apartment.

He shrugged with a smirk. “I feel fine. And I like not wearing clothes. It’s … liberating. You should try it,” he said with a sly wink.

“Right,” she barked with a laugh. “And you think we’re going to last one more night with _both_ of us walking around nearly naked all the time?” she asked.

He laughed at that, his voice matching hers. “Good point. So,” he began with a thoughtful look, “a movie premiere? I’m guessing you’re inviting me as well if you’re asking about my tux.”

She nodded with a smile as she brushed light fingers across the muscled expanse of his chest. Wrapping her arms behind his neck, she said, “I am allowed one guest.”

“And you want to bring me?” he asked, confusion clouding his face. “Why?”

“Cullen, don’t be daft,” she jested with a short giggle. “Why _wouldn’t_ I want to bring you?”

His brow knit with a glare as he frowned once more. “I’m not exactly familiar with red carpets and the glamour that comes along with it,” he sighed. “I’m usually off to the side, keeping a watchful eye. And it’s been years since I’ve been on actual assignment in the field.”

“Except for the Theirins?” she asked.

“They were my first detail in a very long time,” he replied. “Alistair asked me to help, as a favor. It turned out to be a much more permanent position.”

Amallia thought a moment before responding. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

 “No, I …,” he stuttered, pausing to find the right words. “I think it’ll be interesting to experience it from their side.” Another grin found his lips. “Who knows? It might even be romantic.”

She returned his grin, toothy and bright. “Oh, I think it’ll be quite romantic,” she said. “Amazing fashion, fine dining, salacious conversation. It’ll be quite the event.”

“Sounds like a very romantic date to me,” he jested. “Are you sure you’ll be able to handle it?”

She mocked him with a fake gag and Cullen laughed. “I’ll stomach it for one night,” she replied. “We’ll meet up with the cast and invited crew for dinner at about seven o’clock. Red carpet will be going on for a few hours between then and the start of the movie at ten o’clock. I’d like to get to dinner early so you can meet some of the people I’ve been working with.”

He considered her then, a closer look that turned into a smirk the longer he thought. “What are you wearing? Something to impress?”

“I picked a dress up last week,” she replied. “Want to see it?”

He shook his head as he parted from her. “Surprise me,” he called as he rounded the corner and headed down the hall, out of her sight. She laughed again, her light, lilting song as she turned back to the window, watching the ant-sized people as they romped through the snow.


	59. Guest List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner before the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part spans a few hours and written from multiple points of view.

Ornate Tevinter architecture soared high overhead, dark corners of the ceiling untouched by the orange glow of the sconces surrounding the room. Olive and brown and bronze reflected the candle light, casting an eerie glow about the restaurant. A host approached them, asking for their invitations with an outstretched hand, gold cuff links sparkling. Alistair handed over a card, and with the invitation confirmed, the host greeted them and asked that they wait a moment for their table.

“Sia, darling,” he stated, “I asked you a question.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled as she turned to him. “What did you say?”

His massive hand squeezed her waist as he pulled her close. “Do they know we’re here?”

She shook her head as she spoke. “I wanted to surprise Mal. And I didn’t want Cullen to worry or put extra detail on us tonight. The place is crawling with security, given the cast and crew. I think we’ll be fine.”

Alistair laughed his signature chuckle. “Oh, you know the man, he’ll be fraught with worry the moment he spots us.”

“I figured as much,” she commented as the host returned and led them to the rear of the restaurant. He motioned them past and Amodisia stepped over the threshold of a curtained doorway into the dim private dining room, taking great care to lift the hem of her dress. Heavy purple silk hugged her curves, the material clinging, showing off her figure. Bare shoulders and a plunging neckline showed off ample cleavage, much to Alistair’s delight.

“Why did I let you convince me to wear this infernal thing?” she hissed as other invitees of the premiere eyed her from head to toe.

“Because I like it and you love me,” Alistair muttered under his breath as the host showed them to their table. “Or at least, you do a good enough job of _pretending_ to love me, sometimes I can’t tell if you really do or you just like the way I look on your arm,” he jested as he offered his arm.

Amodisia giggled her girlish laugh as her hand slipped beneath his elbow. “Yes, Alistair, you are my trophy husband and arm candy,” she retorted as they followed their host, arriving at a table with a plain view of the entry. Their surrounding guests paid them little mind, and not a single face struck her as memorable. A little sigh of relief breathed between pursed lips as she smoothed her dress over her thighs.

“When will they be here?” Alistair asked as he lifted his menu.

Amodisia followed suit, picking up her menu and speaking. “I’m not sure, it might be …”

“Might be when, dear?” Alistair asked, not looking up.

Words eluded her, evasive and fleeting as she stared at the older man and younger woman entering the room and striding after their host.

“Did you know the Mac Tirs would be here?” she blurted.

“What?”

Terror filled the pit of her stomach at his response, the implied threat ominous.  Golden eyes peered over the edge of his menu to glare daggers across the dining room as Loghain and Anora took their seats at the main table on the far edge of the room.

“Alistair, what is the matter?” she asked. “Why are we not sitting with the Mac Tirs?”

Those golden eyes regarded her, not with pity or disdain or anger, but something else. Something powerful, akin to remorse but not quite, and Amodisia regretted asking the question. When she opened her mouth to speak, Alistair found his words and spoke before she could form her thought.

“I didn’t know they would be here as well,” he muttered into his menu, eyes scanning, unfocused.

“Ali,” she whispered and a tentative hand reached out to touch his. “What’s going on?”

With a wry smile, Alistair said, “We’ll talk about it later, after the premiere.”

Resigned, Amodisia nodded and returned to her menu, but between her shoulders itched an unrelenting, sneaking suspicion with which she was all too familiar.

* * *

Cullen stood in the entry of her apartment, waiting, coat unbuttoned and hands in his pockets. Commander sat at his side, and when Cullen considered the giant beast, the dog returned his appraisal with a stare of judgment all his own. Abashed, Cullen gave him a scratch behind the ears, the Mabari’s mouth lolled open, tongue hanging out, and he groaned with delight.

Fast and sharp clicks of heels on wood echoed down the hallway, preceding her arrival. A swirl of deep red chiffon fluttered around the corner as a heeled foot strode the last step into the entryway and Amallia appeared. She paused at her coat as she placed her earrings in her ears, then attempted to clasp a necklace behind her neck.

Cullen gawked. He had day dreamed the remainder of that day, wondering about her choice of dress. Did she prefer modesty, with high collars and sleeves? Or more revealing, with ethereal fabric? He imagined no longer, for the answer stood before him, and he stared without reservation.

A layer of deep red chiffon sculpted her torso with the scandalous, plunging neckline of her bodice. More chiffon, thin and sheer, covered her shoulders and the bodice to create an illusion of modesty. Cinching at the waist, the sheer overlay hugged her frame, flowing over her hips and falling to the floor.

She took a half step, still struggling with her necklace, and her left leg parted the fabric of her skirt. The shocking length of pale white against the ruby red fabric set his heart racing, and Cullen took in every inch, from the crook of her hip to her strapped heels. Glittering black straps wrapped around her toes, Orlesian pedicure applied to the nails with a practiced hand.

He wanted nothing more than to stare at her all night, but then she cursed in frustration, reality returning in a rush.

“Fucking … _thing!_ ” she hissed.

Cullen spotted the necklace in her hands and he stepped forward with a swift stride. He took the delicate golden chain from her hands and motioned for her to turn.

“Thank you,” she murmured as he lifted the chain over her head and up to her neck.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered in her ear as she lifted her hair and he clasped the chain with ease. Fingers lingered along her collar bone, drifting along to her shoulders. A brush of his lips along her jaw drew a gasp from her chest, heart thrumming in time with his own.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Not if you keep that up,” she said and he heard the coy smile on her lips.

From the rack, he retrieved her coat and helped her into it. “But I like it,” he whispered once more as he withdrew her hair from her coat, fingertips brushing along her neck.

She breathed another sigh, part indignation, part arousal. “And you know I enjoy your touch, but I swear to the Maker, Mr. Rutherford, if you mess up my hair or my makeup, I will end you.”

He laughed a belly laugh as he parted from her, hands held up in defense. “Alright, I’ll keep my hands to myself – _for now_.”

She grinned over her shoulder as she agreed.

“For now.”

* * *

“Alistair, look!”

His head snapped to his left as the curtained doorway parted and admitted a tall blonde man, his presence commanding attention. A trim grey tux and black shoes made up his ensemble, complete with glimmering silver watch on his right wrist and purple pocket square over his left breast. He paused there, seeming to wait as he scanned the intimate setting of the private dining room.

“It’s him!” she hissed, star struck and shaking Alistair by the arm as she grasped him. “The Commander!” she whispered with excitement.

He could hardly blame his wife. Rick Cosnett was easy to look at, warm smile and bright eyes far too charming. And yet Alistair could not resist the temptation to tease her a bit. “You just like him because he looks like Cullen.”

She gasped, feigning offense. “I do _not_ ,” she protested. “Besides, you’re no better.” Amodisia gestured with a nod of her head as the curtain pulled back once more.

A dark-haired woman passed through the doorway to stand beside her co-star, as tall as he and grinning to match his smirk. Dark hair curled and tumbling over one shoulder and she also wore purple, but her dress was a sheath of lace. A deep neckline and full sleeves contrasted for the perfect balance as Katie McGrath surveyed the room.

Mr. Cosnett held out his arm and she took it with a delicate hand, shoulders pulled back and chin held high, like the regal couple they portrayed on screen.

And then Ms. McGrath laughed, a boisterous sound that filled the room and drew attention. Mr. Cosnett failed to restrain his own obnoxious laughter as she withdrew her hand from his arm and wrapped it around his shoulder, her co-star following suit. Together, they shuffled through the dining room, and Ms. McGrath waved a quick roll of her fingers, mouthing a surprised _hello_ to the Theirins as she passed.

“Sia, be a doll and fetch me my feinting couch? I may not make it through the night,” Alistair breathed a sigh of longing, exaggerating his infatuation to annoy her, though the attempt failed.

“If that means I get to have them all to myself, I’ll gladly get you your feinting couch,” she jested.

“Touché.”

* * *

“Thank you for driving us, Ash,” Amallia commented as they arrived at the restaurant. The woman behind the wheel nodded with a smile in the review mirror as she put the gear in neutral and pulled the hand break. A crowd of reporters and paparazzi closed in for their photos and questions. Too many people, too many variables. It was a logistics nightmare.

“Maker’s _breath_ , why did I agree to this?” Cullen hissed.

“Because I need you?” Amallia muttered as she grasped his hand. “I don’t think I could do this on my own.”

Before he put his foot in his mouth, Cullen bit back his thought. She _needed_ him. He doubted that. But the terror in her eyes told him a different story. Strange, he thought. She was fearless on stage but a few reporters and people with cameras frightened her so?

“Are you sure you want to go? We can leave,” he assured her, a comforting hand covering hers.

She shook her head. “No, I … better get used to this quick. It will be the first of many,” she resolved. “Hopefully.”

Cullen nodded and reached the handle, popping it open. “Ready?”

Jaw set and countenance steadied, Amallia gave him a singular nod, firm and confident.

Bright flashes from the cameras and shouts calling his name – _how_ they knew who he was, he had not a clue – assaulted him the moment his head appeared over the roof of the car. He did his best to ignore everyone, rounding the bumper and reaching for the handle of the other passenger door, unlatching and drawing it wide for Amallia to step out with ease.

She hesitated a second, a deep breath heaving her shoulders, and his own breath caught in his throat as a long, pale leg, exposed nearly to the hip, stepped from the car. A flurry of flashes and the repeated _snict, snict, snict_ of shutters mingled with the shouts of reporters, all vying for her attention.

He offered her his hand and thank the Maker, she took it, squeezing hard and pulling for leverage. Cullen moved not an inch, supporting her without a second thought. With a graceful sweep of her other leg, Amallia stood, rising above the door of the car and meeting headlong the renewed assault of flashing lights.

“Ms. Trevelyan, over here!”

“Mr. Rutherford, give us a smile!”

“Ms. Trevelyan!”

“Mr. Rutherford!”

Their names repeated like a mantra, and though Cullen was prepared to bolt for the restaurant, Amallia moved with slow, deliberate steps, a roll to her hips he had seen only in private moments. He matched her pace, though his instincts urged otherwise. Far too many people crowded the sidewalk to be safe and Cullen could not keep track of all the faces, half of which hid behind large cameras.

“Calm down, sweetheart. You’re not on the clock.”

The smooth and soft hum of her voice withdrew the tension from his shoulders and eased his grip on her hand. Her fingers slipped away to reach for his hip, drawing him closer, and his large grip covered her shoulder. He stood a little straighter, a little taller, chin raising and lips stretching into a confident smile.

“Better?”

Cullen nodded and squeezed her shoulder. “Much.”

When they reached the door, it opened for them, a host pushing the gaudy Tevinter carving wide. In a smart suit, the host greeted them as he confirmed their invitations, then begged their forgiveness as they waited to be seated.

* * *

“Ms. Theirin?”

Alistair’s attention followed that of his wife to find a man towering over the opposite end of their table. William Levy held out his hand for Amodisia, and she took it in as firm a grasp as she could manage, her hand so small compared to his.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he chimed with a sparkling grin. He turned to Alistair, greeting him in a similar fashion. “Mr. Theirin, I admit, I am a bit star-struck.”

Alistair scoffed as he took the man’s large hand in his. “You ought to look in a mirror, you do realize that you’re William Levy, all tall and broad and glimmering teeth.”

He had only meant it as a compliment, but the actor blushed all the same. “Still, I’ve been looking forward to meeting the both of you when I’d heard you would be joining us,” he commented, and Alistair noted the look the man angled at his wife. And rightly so; Amodisia was particularly stunning that evening.

“I apologize, I have to …” he pointed to his table where his co-stars were seated.

Amodisia waved her hand, dismissing his concern. “We can speak again later, after the premier.”

He left them then with a nod, another bright smile, and Ms. McGrath and Mr. Cosnett greeted him with warm hugs as he rounded the table. It appeared the three of them were close, friends at the very least for how animated they were during conversation. A drink was set down before Mr. Levy and he took it as he thanked the server.

“Maker, I know they’d all be here, but I never thought we’d meet The Warden,” Amodisia breathed.

Alistair heard not a word she had said, enthralled by the latest arrival.

“Andraste, preserve me.”

His wife turned back to him, following his eyes to the curtained doorway and her jaw dropped to the table.

* * *

They paused before the curtain, heavy red velour barring their way. Amallia gave him a sidelong glance as she approached.

“I’ll go first?” Cullen suggested.

For a moment, she considered his offer, seeming to debate whether it was necessary. Then she nodded, releasing his hand and stepping to the side.

“After you,” she said with a smirk as the host pulled back the curtain.

He snorted a laugh with a roll of his eyes, stepping through the opening and submerging in the near darkness beyond. Several seconds passed before he could make out the room, an intimate setting of tables packed close, cast and crew seated together at random.

Across the room, he spotted the leading actress and her co-star. They were seated at a table with the other man who had portrayed The Warden. And a smattering of other faces – Rahul Kohli, Sophia Taylor Ali, James McAvoy, Shannyn Sossamon, Yaya DaCosta, – dotted the room.

Turning back he held out an open hand, inviting Amallia to join him.

* * *

“Is that …”

Alistair _sighed._ His love-struck gaze and soft smile of adoration looked quite ridiculous. But Amodisia felt a flutter in her chest, a thought creeping in from the surrounding darkness to linger at the edge of her mind as she stared at the man that stood by the curtain.

Alistair’s hand grasped hers in a tight squeeze. “Maker, but he is magnificent.”

She wanted to agree, but her lips would not obey, slack and unresponsive. She could only stare at Cullen in his trim black tux with its red pocket square peeking out at his left breast. Behind him, the curtain remained in place, pulled aside as he offered his hand.

* * *

 

A deep, clarifying breath steadied her nerves, exhaling through pursed lips as she placed her fingers in Cullen’s waiting hand, and he held them with a gentle touch. Deliberate, slow steps carried her over the threshold and she was swallowed by darkness.

Hues of orange and red and brown blended in brush strokes across the room as Amallia waited for her eyes to adjust. As she came to a stop by his side, Cullen released her hand and placed his at the small of her back, firm and reassuring. He scanned the room as she did, though for different reasons. Spotting other familiar faces of her crew, she waved and smiled.

Cullen flinched, a subtle twitch of his hand at her back. She regarded him with a loving smile to find his eyes frozen on the nearest table. She swept the room once more, careful not to draw attention, until she saw what he had; the glimmering green of Amodisia’s wide eyes, and beside her, Alistair with the softest of smiles curling a corner of his lips.

Amodisia was on her feet, looking her over from head to toe and Amallia felt a familiar warmth consume her, cheeks tingling and toes curling. The other woman’s deep purple dress clung to every vivacious curve of her body, deep neckline matching her own. But where Amallia was more evenly proportioned, Amodisia was built like an hourglass, large breasts giving way to a severe waist and wide hips. It took Cullen’s voice to pull her attention away.

“You’re staring, darling.”

She heard the devious grin on his face before she saw it. “And you’re not?”

“I was,” he chimed as he gestured her toward the table and Amallia started for it. “But it appears I have more self-control than you.”

Amallia had a retort prepared, but Amodisia’s hands found her arms, silencing her. “Mal, you look exquisite!”

She enveloped her friend in a tight hug. Maker, but she had missed the woman. “Speak for yourself, Sia, you are absolutely stunning, Maker, look at this dress.”

Amodisia parted from her with a grin to embrace Cullen. “Alistair picked it,” she said as they parted. “I must admit, I feel a little exposed.” Her hand gestured to her cleavage.

“I like it,” she replied with a wink and Amodisia’s face colored a crimson so dark she could see it in the dim candlelight. Before she could say anything else, Alistair rounded the table and wrapped her in a tight hug.

“Beautiful, as always, Mal,” he drawled. “Maker, I wouldn’t have stood a chance with Sia if you hadn’t moved away. And look at this,” he exclaimed as he turned back to Cullen and wrapped an arm low on his back. “Mr. 007 over here. You clean up nicely, Cullen.”

If Amallia had not discussed it with him before, she would have seen how obvious it was then. Cullen managed to contain himself, but his embarrassment colored his cheeks as bad as Amodisia’s.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” he hummed.

Alistair opened his mouth to protest, but all he managed was a soft squeak as Cullen walked away for his chair. The red flush that colored Alistair’s nose spread to his cheeks and down to his neck in a heartbeat, and Amallia knew that embarrassment made it all the way to his navel.

“Alistair?” Amallia asked with a smile. “What is it?”

“Your boyfriend is wicked,” he muttered as he took his seat. “Lucky girl.”

A laugh bubbled up in her throat as Amallia took her seat between Cullen and Amodisia, the two already deep in conversation. Once settled, their server approached, taking drink orders, then hurried away.

More familiar faces drew her attention as Amallia scanned the room again, consuming as much as she could of the atmosphere, the intimate lighting, the hint of spices in the air, and the architecture soaring high overhead.

When Amodisia handed her a menu, she startled, drawn from the depths of her mind. She took the menu from her, but the other woman rested an insistent hand on her forearm.

“I need to ask you something,” she stated.

Was that nerves she heard, a quaver in her voice? Of course, Amodisia would be nervous. Someone had it out for her and they were in public again, surrounded by people about which they knew nothing. Where was their detail, she wondered?

“What is it?” Amallia asked.

Amodisia glanced across the restaurant and Amallia followed to find Loghain and Anora seated amongst minor cast members. Drinks arrived as her head snapped back before Loghain made eye contact and she whispered to Amodisia.

“Did you know the Mac Tirs’ would be here?” she asked.

“No, but …” she trailed off a second, breathing a quick sigh. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” she snipped, irritation evident. “It’s Alistair.”

Amallia considered the man across the table from the corner of her eye. Nothing seemed out of sorts. If anything, Alistair appeared quite happy, smiling as he spoke with Cullen, animated and engaged.

“Is he okay?”

Amodisia shrugged. “He’s fine. Stressed, but fine otherwise. Mal, I think he … he’s …” she stuttered, unable to put words to her thoughts. With an exasperated gasp, she whispered, “Look at him!”

When Amallia considered him once more, she saw nothing different. Amodisia, with her hopeful eyes and brow creeping towards her hairline, nodded with enthusiasm. So, Amallia turned back once more, watching with scrutiny as Alistair smiled and grinned and laughed with Cullen, who mirrored him laugh for laugh, smile for smile. Alistair motioned across the room to the head table and Cullen nodded.

And then it dawned on her.

“Sia,” she started, “Are you just realizing this now?”

“You knew?!” she snapped.

“I … guessed,” Amallia replied. “And it was recent. I talked to Cullen about it.”

“And?!” Amodisia asked, voice rising with excitement as she grasped her arm tighter.

Amallia laughed as she said, “What do you want me to say? They’re infatuated with each other?”

Amodisia gaped. “No. You’re joking. Right?” She looked to Alistair and then Cullen, eyes growing wider with each passing second. “Oh, Maker, you’re not joking. They _are_.”

Amallia returned her attention to her menu, but failed to read anything there as Amodisia stared at the men across the table. Behind Alistair, their server took orders at the table there, moving on to the next, and continuing down the row until he reached the head table. When Alistair spoke, Amallia startled, despite that he addressed his wife.

“See something you like?”

Before she could respond, their server rounded to their table. Cullen ordered roasted pheasant, and Alistair the cheese tortellini, while Amodisia settled on the butternut squash ravioli. Amallia, torn with the options, decided on a filet and a glass of Antivan red. With orders placed and menus cleared, conversation renewed. Cullen updated them on the investigation with great care not to be overheard and Alistair asked questions as Amodisia and Amallia spoke between the two of them.

Another string of actors entered – Dwayne Johnson, Claudia Black, Tabrette Bethell, Dean O’Gorman, and Nicki Aycox – drawing her attention away from the conversation. Amallia followed them, watching as the newly arrived invitees took their seats. Eyes narrowed, she continued to look, placing names with faces as she considered each of them. But something seemed off, out of place or missing.

Not something.

Some _one_.

“Cullen,” she interrupted as she gripped his forearm. “Something’s wrong.”


	60. Intuition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia, Cullen, and Alistair witness suspicious behavior at dinner but keep it from Amodisia.

Cullen scanned the room, mind switching into surveillance mode. Seven seconds to the main door. Fifteen through the kitchen to the alleyway, but only five would have them hidden behind counters and cabinets with plenty of cutlery at their disposal. The Theirin’s detail would hold off anyone for at least five seconds, but after that, they would be on their own.

There was a moment when he noticed that music had been playing in the dining room, so soft he strained to hear it. But when the unmistakable rhythm of _Caravan_ arrived in his ears, the sway of Amallia’s shoulders and head fell in time. And in that same moment of distraction, entranced as he was, his vision focused beyond her to the head table missing a guest.

He was about to speak when Alistair kicked his shin and Cullen jumped in his seat with a gasp of pain.

“What was that for?” he hissed.

Alistair shot him a glare with a small shake of his head in response then looked back to his drink. He knew, Cullen thought. He’d seen the same thing. And Amallia had noticed before either of them, her seat facing the entire room. But for whatever reason, Alistair did not want Amodisia to know.

“Mal, what’s gotten in to you?” the woman across from him asked. “What’s wrong?”

Amallia balked, mouth gaping as she hesitated. “I’m just a little worried,” she stuttered.

Their food arrived before Amodisia could reply, plates placed before each of them. By the time their server left, Amallia had a readied defense.

“The whole thing has me on edge. The case, the confusion, the clear attempt at obfuscation,” she explained. “And we’re here without any direct detail—”

“That’s not entirely true,” Alistair began as he lifted a forkful of tortellini, “we have some of our regular staff here.”

Her brilliant blue eyes scanned the room, widening in understanding. “Right,” she muttered looking to her filet and fluffing her mashed potatoes with her fork.

Cullen swallowed a bite of pheasant before speaking. “They’re doing a decent job,” he muttered, reassuring her with a touch at her back and she calmed, shoulders relaxing.

As they ate, Amodisia and Amallia spoke of plans for the holidays then, conversation returning to normal. They decided whether they should plan for dinner on Christmas or Satinalia, and when Amallia and Cullen could visit Denerim. Settling on Christmas, Amallia offered her apartment up for dinner on the eve and suggested Cullen invite his family as well.

Before long, Loghain and Anora stalked past their table, Anora waving with a bright smile and Loghain wearing his usual glower. Cullen looked back to their table to find Anora’s plate half eaten and Loghain’s clean.

Alistair’s shout of surprise had Cullen on his feet before he saw the problem. A woman at the table behind them was speeding for the rear of the restaurant, her chairback shoved against Alistair’s.

“Oh, dear, I hope she’s alright,” Amallia muttered.

Cullen listened, eyes unfocused as he stared at his own plate and returned to his seat. The woman’s fellow dinner mates questioned one another as to what she had ordered. Maybe she had eaten something she was allergic to, one suggested. Another refuted the idea, stating she wasn’t allergic to any food. When she didn’t return for several minutes, one of her friends made for the restroom.

Dinner plates were cleared – Amodisia had hardly touched her food – replaced by after-dinner drinks. More conversation followed, but Cullen noted Amodisia’s sudden disinterest. That coupled with her lack of usual appetite agitated him as they all stood to mingle with the cast and crew.

Amallia walked ahead with Alistair as Cullen held back, waiting for Amodisia to join him. By his side, she took his arm but said nothing, blank stare not seeing the throng of people before her.

“Sia?”

She sighed an irritated sound. “It’s nothing,” she muttered. “I’m … I’m fine.”

Cullen stopped her before they neared the large group where Amallia and Alistair stood. “Sia, please talk to me.”

“I … Alistair said something earlier, before you arrived. When Loghain and Anora showed up, he got quite angry. Seething, even,” she explained.

Cullen attempted to soothe her with a small smile. “You’re safe here. Don’t worry.”

“No, that’s,” she paused, “that’s not it. But his anger has me worried. Paranoid, even.”

A comforting hand rubbed her shoulder. “Tell me, Sia. I bet it’s not as paranoid as you think.”

“That woman? The one that ran off for the bathroom?” she described, waiting for him and he nodded. “She’s still in there with her friend.”

“Maybe she’s just ill? Could be the flu, it’s going around,” Cullen offered.

She sighed, exasperated, and Cullen heard the frustration tinged with exhaustion in her voice. “You’re probably right. I’m sorry. Since the shooting, and Alistair’s concerns as of late have me constantly looking over my shoulder. I just can’t shake the feeling that someone has it out for me.”

No, Cullen thought. The evidence should tell the truth. And yet, all it had managed to do was cloud his judgment, obfuscate and derail. With Amodisia’s concerns expressed, there must be something missing, a piece of the puzzle that would complete the picture. When his focus returned to Amodisia, he found her eyes searching. All Cullen had to offer was words of reassurance.

“I’ll look into it,” he noted. “We’re not ruling out any possibility at this point.”

She slipped her arm back into his and smiled with pursed lips. “Thank you, Cullen. I appreciate your understanding.”

Cullen merely nodded, a cold dread filling the pit of his stomach at the perilous path that lay before them.


	61. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the premiere a success, Amallia and Cullen mingle with the cast and crew.

It was nearing one o’clock by the time the viewing ended. With a racing heart, Amallia floated on a cloud as she walked beside Cullen; witnessing the final cut of the movie had thrilled her beyond her wildest dreams. And then the task at hand rushed to meet her, speeding like an oncoming train as they filtered from the theater and into the lobby.

Borne along the ceaseless wave of people, the furious swing of  _One O’clock Jump_ found her ears and she grinned at its punctuality. Losing herself to the cacophony of voices and music, minutes passed in the blink of an eye as she hummed along. Faces came and went, most of which were crew and staff. Her name – as well as Cullen’s – stumbled from her lips after the tenth introduction, odd on her tongue and teeth. And though it felt as if little time had passed at all, it was another hour before Cullen tugged her attention to him.

“Ms. Trevelyan?”

At first, she thought he was trying to be cute, addressing her in such a fashion. But the baritone that found her ears drifted from behind, softer, smoother, but equally alluring. When she turned, she found herself eye to eye with the lead actor and actress, arm in arm and bearing champagne.

“Ah – yes, I …” she stuttered as she took Mr. Cosnett’s outstretched hand. “I apologize, Mr. Cosnett, it is a pleasure. Ms. McGrath.” Amallia shook the woman’s hand as well.

“We’ve never been properly introduced and saw the opportunity,” Ms. McGrath began. “I wanted to thank you personally for all of your amazing work on this movie.”

Disbelief seized her voice in her throat. Gaping like a fish, she tried to speak but the words were slow and awkward. “I … please, without the two of you, I wouldn’t have had such amazing material to work with.”

Mr. Cosnett laughed and Ms. McGrath giggled, but Amallia meant it. Before she could embarrass herself further, she gestured to her left. “This is my … my guest, Cullen Rutherford.”

Cullen turned about at the sound of his name, his hand returning to the small of her back. When he saw their company, his eyes widened a fraction, pupils dilating as Mr. Cosnett took his hand.

“Cullen Rutherford,” he echoed with a scrutinizing stare. “You wouldn’t happen to be an actor?”

Bless the man’s soul, Cullen laughed. Amallia admired his iron will. “I am not,” he smiled, crooked grin matching that of Mr. Cosnett’s. “But, after tonight, I’m thinking of a career change.”

“I marvelous idea!” Alistair blurted as he emerged from the crowd, Amodisia at his side. He clapped Cullen on the shoulder and grinned as he added, “Love, don’t you think he looks like the lead actor a bit?”

Amodisia pursed her lips as she nudged Alistair. “Don’t, you’re embarrassing him.”

The red blooming across Cullen’s cheeks agreed with her, but Amallia could not resist. “I think so, Alistair.”

“You know,” Ms. McGrath started with a thoughtful giggle. “He kind of does. And Maker, he’s a dead ringer for Rick’s character in the movie.”

He swallowed as he shot Amallia a nervous look and laughed a nervous laugh. “I’m … flattered. Thank you.”

“Alright, leave the poor man alone,” Alistair teased. “Say, Mr. Cosnett, do you remember …”

Amallia’s attention drifted then, their conversation continuing but often interrupted by other cast members – Nick Offerman, Bryce Dallas Howard, Evan Peters, and when Kate Beckinsale hugged her, she felt as though she might burst in her excitement – each congratulating and thanking each other, asking after next projects, or wishing each other the best as they departed.

Amallia never thought her career would deposit her in the middle of a crowd of celebrities, but there she was. Gone were her nerves from earlier that evening, fading away as if they had never existed in the first place. And the moment Alistair and Amodisia had rejoined them, Cullen relaxed further, anxiety melting away like snow in spring. The night had been the epitome of a dream come true.

Senses keen, something twitched Amallia’s ear. It was several seconds before the distant wailing registered. A siren, yet several blocks away, pierced the cacophony of the lobby, but only just. And with each minute the sound grew louder and louder until she swore the ambulance was right outside the doors.

And when the blaring shut off with an abrupt clip, a hush fell over the lingering cast and crew, a deafening silence that rushed a chill down her spine. Through the doors of the lobby, Amallia saw the flashing red and white lights of an ambulance, but the vehicle itself was out of sight. Not there, then, not the theater.

The restaurant?

She had to know, to see. Carried on unbidden feet, Amallia wended her way through the throng. Distant questions, calls for her attention followed her, nipping at her heels as she pushed through the doors to stand on the sidewalk.

A frigid winter gust whipped at her dress, loose strands of her hair wrapping across her face as she squinted in the flashing lights. Cullen joined her, shrugging out of his jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders. Alistair and Amodisia soon followed, watching with equal interest and shivering in the sharp air.

The doors of the restaurant burst open, two EMTs leading a stretcher upon which lay the woman that had become ill at dinner. One EMT at her side was shouting orders, another working steadily at a resuscitator. The rear doors of the ambulance crashed apart as they approached, a fourth EMT ready to receive them. When they collapsed the legs of the stretcher, the woman’s friend that had followed her to the bathroom exited the restaurant and ran to the ambulance, hopping inside. Then a woman Amallia did not know spoke from behind her.

“What happened?”

“She became ill at dinner,” another woman said. “Something she ate.”

“Maker, I hope she’s alright,” the first woman commented. “What did she eat?”

“Butternut squash ravioli.”

A slow, stunned stare found Amodisia, her face whiter than the driven snow.


	62. A Light in the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is very frustrated with the investigation, but Amallia manages to cheer him up.

Growling with frustration, Cullen shoved his chair away from his desk and stood, stomping to the kitchen. Christmas loomed not two weeks away and he and his team were no closer to any suspect or even a lead in their investigation. If the case had not grown cold months prior, it had frozen over in the past three months, held tight in winter’s grasp.

When he wrenched open the refrigerator and withdrew a beer with a rough grasp, Amallia peaked over the back of his couch with a book in her hands, his stereo playing _The Hologram_ as it faded into _Binary Sunset_.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Less than graceful fingers dug through the drawer wrenched open for the bottle opener, and even less delicate fingers pried the top from the bottle. Tossing the opener back in the drawer and slamming it shut, he tried to throw the cap in the bin but missed, the metal clattering across the wood floor with a soft plinking sound.

He set the bottle on the counter and gripped its edge, head dropping to hang between his hunched shoulders. A fever had taken over him, the stress and anxiety growing each day they found little and less from their research. No interviews had panned out, too few supposed eye-witness stories matched, and the pure lack of proper initial investigative work drove him mad.

And then the tension withdrew, warm hands at his shoulders digging deep into the muscles. Cullen groaned a soft sigh as he relaxed, back releasing and arms loose. His grip on the counter eased, white knuckles fading as his fingers fell slack, and then he turned to Amallia. Leaning on the edge of the counter, he wrapped his arms around her back and drew her in close.

“No progress?” she asked.

He grimaced, frustration returning. “None. Ash and I spent hours going over interviews today. Delrin, Krem, and Raleigh were in the field interviewing new witnesses. I can’t find anything on the empty boutique the shooter used. Nobody in Redcliffe PD or Denerim PD have the bullet and I can’t send anybody out to look again because of all the snow.”

She frowned, empathetic as ever. “I’m sorry, love. I wish I could help,” she muttered, her arms wrapping around his waist.

“This helps,” he whispered in her ear. “More than you know, this makes all the difference in the world.”

She snorted a derisive sound through her nose. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he replied. “But I’m not sure you can help,” he continued. “I’m missing something. It feels like …” his thought faded, unfinished, incomplete. “I can see the entire picture,” he started once more, stuttering. “It’s there, but … maybe I’m just looking at it from the wrong angle. It’s out of focus, tilted …”

“Crooked?”

Taken aback, Cullen held her out at arm’s length, staring with wide eyes and a deep furrow in his brow. “What did you just say?”

“It’s crooked,” Amallia started. “Like a picture on a wall. Needs a little nudge to hang straight again,” she described.

He tilted his head, mimicking her as if to help him understand. An eye twitched, narrowing, scrutinizing. And then understanding crashed into him, striking him like a bolt of lightning.

 _Crooked_.

Like a cop.

Or even a detective.

In fact, make that two detectives.

He grasped Amallia by the shoulders and pushed her back too hard, for she shouted at him as she stumbled backwards. Open bottle forgotten, he rushed back to his office, Amallia hot on his heels demanding an explanation. He had to focus on that thought before he lost the connection, the logic, the absolute pristine clarity of understanding the first time in the entire investigation.

He tore the lid from the box atop his desk and rifled through it until he found a folder, withdrawing it. When he spun about, Amallia cut off her angry demands for an explanation. He held the folder out to her and after a second’s consideration, she snatched it from him and opened it.

“More bank statements. So?” she snapped.

He turned back to his desk and picked up the single document that pieced it all together. The one she had pointed out all those weeks ago, that, without her, he might have never noticed. She took it from him and held it beside the other statement in the folder, comparing. Cullen watched as the numbers crunched in her head, quick addition calculating the values until they matched. With each transaction, her eyes widened until they were bulging.

“ _This_. This is it, Cullen!” she exclaimed. “You connect these cops to _Warden Capitals_ and then you find out why Warden Capitals is involved. If dirty cops are involved—”

Her excitement cut off as Cullen planted his lips on hers, a fiery kiss that lingered. Stunned, Amallia stood still as stone until he released her, eyes flicking open and as wide as they had been a moment before.

“I’m sorry, I … had to. Seeing you as excited as I am about this evidence,” he excused, “and it’s all because of you that we’ve gotten this far. I couldn’t resist—”

Her lips returned to his, silencing him as he had done to her, but she was relentless, determined, _permanent_. The smooth warmth of her tongue pried at his lips and he parted without hesitation. His senses overflowed with her, her essence consuming him, washing over him until he could hardly breathe. And yet, he didn’t need to, for she was the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins, the very spark of life in his chest that beat in time with hers.

A metallic clang drew his attention back to her, to her hands at his pants, and he parted from her once more. His belt was on the floor, button and zipper undone, shirt untucked and bunched up to his chest. And she mirrored him, t-shirt rucked up beneath her breasts, pants undone and hanging from her hips. How? _When?_ He hadn’t felt his own hands tear at her clothing, nor hers at his, and yet there they were, well on their way.

As he stood there, so still and cautious, Amallia’s hand hesitated at his hip. Worry filled her eyes so blue as she asked, “Are you alright?”

The supple skin of her hips seared his palms, his fingers as he grasped her and pulled her flush with his body. Closer, he needed her closer, as close as possible, a hand in her hair and the other at the small of her back. He whispered to her as he pulled her close, his lips brushing hers. “I’m quite alright. Are you?”

Gasping a soft moan, Amallia’s chest heaved with anticipation. She managed a short nod as she bit her bottom lip, hands roaming over his chest beneath his shirt. Nothing else existed; the world faded as she writhed in his arms against entire body, a hint of _Everlong_ drifting to their ears. Aching for more, they raced towards the point of no return and if they didn’t stop then, they would soon find themselves beyond the confines of their agreement.

“Mal, I …” he groaned. “We—”

“ _Take me._ ”

Without a second thought, he did as she commanded.


	63. At Long Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of their breakthrough discovery, Amallia and Cullen celebrate.

Waiting, Cullen decided, had been a dumb idea.

A _really_ dumb idea.

“Maker, preserve me.”

He lay on his bed and she straddled his hips, a vision of a dream. Amallia, with her impish smile and hooded blue eyes, smoothed fire across his chest, her hands greedy and insistent. There were too many things he wanted to say, too many thoughts, but all were lost before they made it to his lips, so overwhelmed. Part of him wondered if it was his imagination sating his unbearable ache for her; a mere two months prior, Cullen thought he’d managed to move on, time dissolving his infatuation with the woman.

But Andraste’s _flaming_ sword, this was no simple crush. He _felt_ her, mind and body, her presence more than physical. It radiated from her in unrelenting waves, crashing over him, consuming him like all the glorious parts of lyrium liberated from the price it extracted.

Without a doubt, she was no dream. And, as if he required further confirmation of that fact, the music she had abandoned in his living room faded from one song to the next, _Iris_ echoing down the hall.

His groin flexed, twitching as if commanded by her moans and whimpers and lurid hips. Forget words. He would show her what she did to him, how she drove him mad with her voice and how she fueled his lust with her body flush against his.

How she had cleared the fog that had lingered in his mind for years.

“What are you thinking about?”

Had she spoken? Surely, she had, for her lips had moved. He shook his head and sighed. “Nothing,” he started, pausing with a crooked smirk as he squeezed her thighs. “Everything.” At that, she barked a laugh that he rarely heard, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to quiet herself as she giggled.

He’d spoken the truth. She _was_ everything, the world melting away as her hips rolled, grinding her core against the bulge at his groin, and soon there was only her. Desperate need consumed him, chest heaving with desire, and he wanted more, more of her, more of what she hinted at with her coy smirk.

Thought turned to action when he grasped at the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head as he sat up. The purple waves of her hair tumbled over her shoulders, a waterfall of violet and indigo. Long locks covered her breasts just so, leaving enough bare to tease the eye, to draw his attention, ever lower, until he lingered on pink buds, taut with aching arousal and peeking out between the strands of her hair.

And then there were her hips. Oh, Maker’s breath, they shouldn’t move like _that_. It wasn’t fair, the way she writhed, the way she touched _herself,_ hands smoothing over her heated skin and breasts undulating with her writing body. It almost felt dirty, he the uninvited guest spying on her as she pleasured herself. Then again, she was using him, taking from him what she needed. She could take whatever she wanted from him at that moment, any desire that struck her fancy, and Cullen would, quite literally if she asked it of him, bend to her will.

As her hips rolled, seeking out the friction that failed to satisfy, she unbuttoned his shirt and tugged on the collar. Brief brushes of her hardened peaks teased at his cotton undershirt as she slipped the button-up from his shoulders and her fingers seared the skin of his arms like the cleansing flames of Andraste. Too slow, she was moving too slow and he needed to be free of the barrier between them. Pulling the fabric from his wrists, he flung the button-up away, then grasped the hem of his undershirt and tore it off, laying back with one arm behind his head and the other returning to her hip.

There was no use in hiding the smile that crawled across his lips as she stared at his half-naked body, slack-jawed and eyes wide. No one had ever looked at him _quite_ like that before, so attracted, so aroused simply by seeing him shirtless, and the feeling of being desired the way Amallia desired him fanned the flames of his arousal to a roaring blaze.

He had to feel her, so heated, aching for her touch. Skin met skin as he straightened, arms around her waist and the smooth, solid plains of his chest meeting the hardened peaks at the tips of her breasts. Breathless moans, soft and naught but a whisper repeated in a steady rhythm, and Amallia’s chest heaved as he thrust, grinding his length against her core.

“Why?” she whispered, breath hot on his cheek. “We’ve done this before, why does it feel like the first time all over again?”

His lips found her neck, sucking and kissing and marking at the collar, nipping down her chest until the supple flesh of a breast was his to taste. He paused, lips on her skin as he breathed, “Because it’s been far too long. And we tortured ourselves.”

Gooseflesh raced across his skin as her fingers buried in his hair at the nape of his neck. “Too long, indeed,” she moaned. Her whimpers of ecstasy cut off her words, urging him on, and he pressed further, gathering her hair and grasping it at the back of her head. The taut peak of a breast begged to be soothed, to be eased of its ache, and Cullen obliged.

The tip of his tongue reached out for a slow, languid lick, circling around the nipple. Amallia gasped, back arching, pressing the bud into his mouth and her hands clasping at the back of his head. Humming in approval at her eagerness, Cullen sealed his lips on her, sucking and licking, laving her flesh as she writhed against him.

The pure want, the _need_ she exuded tasted sweeter than any dessert. Every hitch of her hips, every sigh and moan, every clawing of her fingers on his scalp drove him near to madness. Restraint had all but fled. Set a steady pace, he thought, lest he burst with excitement far too soon. Teeth closed and pinched with the softest pressure, and Amallia hissed, shivering in his arms with delightful arousal. Oh, how the quivering of her entire body, flush against his, threatened to undo him.

One slow lick soothed the sting, and Cullen wasted no time in moving to the other breast, still flushed bright pink and pebbled so hard, he wondered if it hurt. He looked to her then, her wanton sounds falling from parted lips as she anticipated his mouth returning to her body. Eyes screwed shut, her brow furrowed as she waited until he teased her too far. Roiling blue flames burst alight when her eyes flicked open, glaring.

“Suck it.”

Oh, a command, then? How far dare he push her? “Excuse me?” he asked, taunting.

Her whine of protest sounded near to a pout. “Suck on it!” she insisted, begging.

“Suck on it …” he prompted, a critical eyebrow rising.

It almost frightened him, the devious grin that spread across her face. That was it. He’d made a terrible mistake.

A terribly _glorious_ mistake.

“Please, _Mr. Rutherford_. Suck on it,” she whispered with a whining moan, begging.

His grin matched hers, fading only to oblige her request. Enveloping her once more, she cried out, ache finally relieved, soothed for the moment. Swirling circles arched her back, moans and whimpers renewed as he teased at the tip of her breast. Another soft nibble and a smooth lave of his tongue caught her breath in her throat as she startled, her hiss of pain falling to a shuddering moan of pleasure in the same exhale.

Fingers roamed along her spine to dip into her jeans, loose enough to allow him in. Grasping, he pinned her hips to his as he rolled, grinding his length against her center. Throbbing, Cullen repeated his mantra of restraint, of pacing. But the thought vanished when she shoved him back, hands flat on his chest, and her breast tugged from his lips with a wet _pop_.

His chest heaved with anticipation, eyes wide as he stared at Amallia leaning over him, lowering herself to his chest where their scalding skin met. With her lips at his ear she whispered, issuing another command.

“Stay.”

Maker’s breath, what was she doing? Teasing him so soon? He wouldn’t survive five more minutes if she kept that up. He nodded, despite his concern, sucking in a deep breath and closing his eyes to concentrate, to temper his roiling lust. When the bed shifted and her weight vanished, he dared to peek, chancing a look.

Kneeling beside him, Amallia grasped her jeans and pealed them over her hips to reveal black lace. Wriggling free, she kicked the pants to the floor, then righted herself, back straight and posture perfect.

Cullen never thought himself a shallow man. But as Amallia shifted towards his shoulders, there was nothing to stop him from admiring her bare body. He dared not look away, lest he miss something, anything she might do that would pump his blood faster, coil his arousal tighter. And when she paused just beneath his shoulders, he froze with baited breath, hanging on the edge of anticipation.

Her thumbs hooked the black lace at her hips, slipped them away, then dangled the garment just over his face. She held it there a moment before tossing the thong to his chest. A sticking wetness tingled the skin of chest, and for a second, the sensation puzzled him. But as Amallia lifted a thigh over his face, the fog of confusion cleared instantly. Glistening folds hovered inches above, taunting him, and he licked his lips, ready for a feast.

Again, she moved too slow, and Cullen needed her, had to taste her at that very moment. Both arms wrapped behind her thighs and his hands slapped her hips as he grasped her, pulling her down with a firm flex.

Sweet. Smooth. Soft. Distinctly _her_ , Amallia, her arousal on his tongue for the first time in over a year and Cullen could have wept. Her gasping cry of pleasure filled his senses, mingling with the scent of her core and the taste of her nectar. Lips and tongue sucked and licked, devoured, consumed as he drowned in her lust. The stiff bud of her pearl throbbed as he circled it, tongue rigid for the perfect pressure, and nothing compared to the song she sung to the heavens, his name repeated like the only verse she knew.

She begged him for more, breathless gasps that burst from her chest in high moans and whimpering cries. And more he gave her, tongue diving between her lips, parting her and penetrating as deep as he could. Close, so close after only a few moments, she rolled her hips in time with his tongue’s rhythm. Lingering at the precipice, Cullen knew she needed but a little more and she would unravel for him.

He released her hip, hand smoothing down her pert ass until it found her seam. She startled at the sudden touch between her cheeks, and Cullen hummed his approval into her core as he continued to feast on her flesh. Lower and lower, his fingers dragged, and he shifted his mouth up, sealing his lips around the throbbing bundle of nerves at her apex. Thick fingers parted her lips, coated in her arousal, then slipped inside where the walls of her cunt flexed.

Another gasp filled the room, her back arched and head thrown back as she breathed a high, keening moan. With a steady pace, his fingers thrust and lips sucked, and Cullen watched with wide eyes as Amallia writhed over him, breasts heaving with each breath. She demanded more, faster and harder, she begged for her release until nothing but nonsense fell from her lips.

The silken fluids of her sex dripped along his chin and ran down his hand as he gave her everything she wanted. Each thrust of his fingers was marked by a moan and each suck and swirl of his tongue over her throbbing clit thrust her hips into him. And when her breath seized in her chest, little grunts and growls of frustration followed, her body clenching around him like vice, walls flexing with repeated throbs.

Her entire body froze, hands a knot in his hair and thighs tight around his head as her mouth fell open. She was there, right _there_ , ready for the pleasure that was within her reach, he only needed to give it to her. And with one smooth thrust of his fingers, coupled with a long, firm lick of his tongue, her cry ripped from her throat as her body convulsed, unraveled, undone.

Amallia panted her orgasm out in echoing moans as she rolled her hips, grinding her core against his face to extract every bit of pleasure possible. His lips released and fingers withdrew as the hot nectar of her orgasm spilled forth, running over his lips as Cullen lapped at her flesh. His eyes fluttered closed as he drank her in, each moan and each pulse of her climax sending waves of arousal to his groin. Tight with need, he writhed beneath her, fingers biting into thick thighs and nose relishing the scent of her climax.

Her sopping wet center met his chest as she sat back, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh at the sensation. He gazed along the curves of her body, higher and higher until he met her heavily lidded eyes. Glassy and unfocused, the fog of her climax lingered, still coursing through her veins, and he felt the flex of her core as it twitched with aftershocks.

She cupped his cheek, a tender touch that rolled his eyes into the back of his head as they shut. He turned into her palm, nuzzling and kissing, memorizing the touch for the days he might need it. Eyes fluttering open, he found a soft smile spread across her lips as she sighed, “Nobody should be that good at eating me out.”

Confidence Cullen had not known in years soared at the compliment, emboldening him so, he replied, “I take great pride in my … oral skills.”

Her smile flashed brighter, a wicked grin that hinted at more to come. “I could help you practice those _aural_ skills, you know. I’m quite the vocalist.”

“Oh, I am well aware,” he said as he brought his hand to his lips. “You seem to favor one song in particular. Shall I – hey!”

Her fingers snatched his wrist before he could reach his mouth, the last taste of her denied to him. “I think,” she began as she brought his fingers to her mouth, “it is _your_ turn to sing for me.” Her tongue snaked out to taste, the tip touching his fingers, and his mouth gaped as he watched her take them in. Lips sealed around both, sucking her own arousal from his digits until he felt the back of her throat. Maker but the woman was corporeal sin, turning something as simple as sucking a finger so erotic, a long, heavy flex of his erection reminded him of his own arousal. Not that he had forgotten about it. No, Amallia had such a way of distracting him with her delicious moans and lascivious body, he wanted to see her satisfied more than once before they were finished.

As his fingers fell from her lips, his attention returned to her, crawling back on the bed to the edge, then slipping between his thighs to kneel on floor. Slacks still on, she tugged at them, and he lifted his hips for her. With his pants discarded, Cullen watched as she hesitated, a curious gleam in her eyes.

“Since when do you wear briefs?”

Cullen sat up and looked at his underwear, a dark red and black striped pair of narrow briefs that twitched with his erection. There was nothing more he wanted at that moment than to have them off, to free himself of the constricting fabric. But Amallia waited, peering at him with a curious stare, fingers teasing at the edges of the fabric.

“I’ve—” he began, a whimper interrupting his thought as her fingers brushed the taut skin of his stomach. His teeth dragged over his bottom lip in a bid for more control. “I’ve always … worn briefs and boxer briefs,” he said with a huff, anticipation growing. “So?”

A hungry lick of her lips flexed his erection once more, begging for her touch. One hand cupped his sack as the other palmed the base of his length and Cullen gasped, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth. If she drew him out any longer, there would be a repeat of the night they’d slept in the same bed last month.

“I’m torn,” she muttered, leaning closer. “I don’t know which I like better. Maybe,” she paused, fingers hooking into the band, “I prefer you without any underwear at all.”

Cool air did little to soothe his searing skin as Amallia drew the fabric of his underwear away, heavy cock falling free. Heaving breaths wracked his entire body as her fingers wrapped around the base and there was no way he would ever forget the devious grin she gave him as her lips neared his flesh. Those lips, _Maker_ , but those lips had no right to feel the way they did, pink and full and wrapping around the head of his erection.

His whimpering moan colored his cheeks, a deep pink flush that spread to his chest. He felt like a teenager again, unable to contain his arousal and mind reeling at the slightest pleasure. Practiced fingers stroked at the base of his shaft while her mouth lowered to meet her hand. A soft flex of her throat pulled another helpless moan from his chest and she withdrew, humming with approval.

A lock of hair fell over her face and he gathered it up, grasping it at the back of her head with the rest. The primal urge to use her took over, hips thrusting his length into her mouth as he pressed her head into him. When she pulled back with a strong reflex, regret inundated him and he rambled a slew of apologies.

“Maker, Mal, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what made me do that, I— _oh!_ ”

She grasped him by the base of his shaft once more, squeezing with a firm grip and silencing him. “If I couldn’t handle a little rough oral, I wouldn’t have offered,” she replied, voice deep with want. “I’ll have to hold on, though. You’re,” she paused, eyeing his cock, “quite a bit to swallow.”

Cullen had not underestimated Amallia. No, for some time he thought he might have overestimated their intimacy, built it up to be more than it had ever been, the anticipation of repeating the night they’d once shared driving his expectations far too high.

But then she’d said _that_.

Andraste’s tits, but they were barely scratching the surface of their desires for one another.

A smirk hooked the corner of his mouth. “You seem to know what you’re doing,” he whispered, voice thick with arousal.

She grinned. “I take great pride in my oral skills.”

_Maker, know my heart, for I am about to sin._

“Suck my cock.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond, pressing her head down, and she obeyed with an eagerness that shuddered through his entire body. Her lips sealed around the head, rolling along the slick flesh as he thrust with soft rolls of his hips and the push of his hand at the back of her head. More, he wanted more of it, of _them_ , the two of them together at long last, a dream he thought would never come true.

But it _was_ true, she was there with the heat of her mouth enveloping him, head bobbing up and down and the fiery blue blaze in her eyes locked with his smoldering amber stare. And as he watched the smooth glide of her lips and soft stroke of her hand, the tightly bound bundle of his orgasm loosened in his belly, unraveling, splitting at the seams and he could handle no more unless he wanted to end their coupling far earlier than he’d planned.

He wrenched back on her hair, Amallia gaping with a short laugh as she froze, the tip of his cock resting on her bottom lip. The vulgarity of it all, the curses he strung together under the weight of his impending release, the way she smiled up at him, knowing what she’d done, wracked his body with shivers so fierce, he shook. Grabbing the base of his shaft with his free hand, he squeezed, pressing down and flexing every muscle in his body as he sucked in breath after breath through his nose and out of his mouth in a rasping growl.

And Amallia waited, ever patient, blue eyes bright and pink lips swollen from the friction of skin on skin. A translucent bead of precum gathered at the tip of his cock, overflowing to roll to her tongue, and her lips closed for a soft suckle, licking him clean.

The smooth warmth of her mouth tipped him over the edge, and as he grunted in frustration, body convulsing, mind reeling, Amallia’s lips parted, ready.

One large bead of cum rushed to the tip, overflowing into her mouth as it released from him. There was more, _loads_ more, but he held back, mind and body working as one to save himself, to hold on a few more seconds as the overwhelming sensation passed.

When her lips closed around him once more, her eyes fluttered shut and he released her hair. She moaned a sigh so depraved, his control slipped. An aftershock burst from his core, another spurt of his seed shooting into her mouth and she moaned again, louder, as she swallowed.

He had to do something, fast, before he fell apart, before his mind stumbled any further.

_Baseball._

_Cold showers._

_Baseball._

_Cold showers._

She moaned.

Again.

_Fuck._

When that failed to work – no thanks to Amallia and her sinful mouth still wrapped around the head of his throbbing cock – he screwed his eyes shut tighter and began to whisper aloud.

“Maker, judge me whole; Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval.”

A lascivious slurp found his ears as Amallia released him and his eyes snapped open to find her kneeling on the bed beside him. With her soft smile and tender touch, the roiling need to finish himself ebbed, subsided, and he stamped it back down to a dull roar, under control once more as he collapsed to his back.

“I don’t know how Andraste feels, but _I_ approve of your singing.”

He laughed despite himself. “I’ve had a lot of practice as of late,” he jested and her laughter lifted his heart higher than any Chant of the Light ever had.

Thoughts drifted a moment as he stared at her, not seeing her so much as feeling her, sensing her there, her essence melding with his. Her lips moved, but he heard nothing, the lingering fog of his orgasm clouding his mind.

“Cullen?”

He blinked several times, clearing his head. “Yes, pup?”

Her fingers teased at his length pressed between their bodies. “I want more,” she whispered in his ear and he heard the impish grin on her lips.

Cullen sat up, turning to her as he said, “I am yours.”

Amallia lay on the bed, turning to her stomach and presenting her backside to him with a wiggle of her hips. “How’s this?”

_Oh._

For a moment, Cullen could do nothing but gape. Muscled shoulders curved down to the narrow of her waist, giving way to round hips and an ass so perfect, he gave in to temptation.  

On his knees, he straddled her legs and grasped her backside with rough fingers, nails biting into her flesh and exposing her core. Still dripping with arousal, Cullen licked his lips, the urge to taste her again taking over.

His lips met hers, face buried between her cheeks, nose pressing against her tight hole, and Amallia cried out in shock. She arched into him, pressing her cunt to his mouth and he inhaled, deep, the taste and smell a heady rush that shot straight to his thick erection. He sucked at her lips, licked at her swollen clit and as soon as he had her writhing, panting his name, he pulled back, releasing one hand to grasp himself.

“What do you want me to do, pup?” he asked.

She whined at his teasing, breathless, but he heard the smile on her lips as she moaned.

“Fuck me.”

Though she could not see his face, he raised an eyebrow as he repeated her. “Fuck me …”   

Her back arched again as she whimpered, begging for him. “Oh, _please_ , Mr. Rutherford. _Fuck me_.”

 _Maker’s breath_.

More hands, he needed at least eight more hands for her, to grasp and rub and stroke everywhere she needed. But he made due with the two he had.

“You,” he paused as he angled the tip of his erection to her shimmering heat, “are a very naughty woman.” With a soft, slow roll of his hips, the tip of his cock disappeared between her flesh, and for the second time that night, Cullen could have wept.

And then her arms were behind her back.

‘Naughty’ did her no justice.

“What—”

“Don’t play coy,” she muttered. “You know what to do.”

Of course, he did. But she was asking it of him. To grasp her wrists, to restrain her, she _wanted_ him to do that to her, not him asking her to try it.

One massive hand released her backside and grasped her wrists, enveloping them both with ease. The moan she cried into the mattress set him twitching, his groin flexing, begging to bury himself inside of her.

With the tip of his cock teasing her cunt, Cullen gawked at the sight. “Sweet Andraste, you are perfect,” he shuddered, unable to contain his raw lust, voice hoarse and deep, and he wanted her to know what she did to him, how she made him feel. And the music echoed his thoughts, still playing in the living room as _Fat Bottomed Girls_ began _,_ distracting him but for a moment.

Inch by inch, he parted her, spreading her until his groin met her backside. His eyes closed once more, lips parting and mouth falling open to breathe as she enveloped him. Another long, wanton moan dragged from her chest, filling his head, and the world faded away until only the two of them remained. And in that void, they drifted, submerged in their lust, in their most base desires for one another.

“ _Fuck me!_ ”

The world returned, crashing into him like a bolt of lightning, and his eyes opened to find her hips rolling in earnest against him. He needed no other command, no other order to do what he had been aching to do for two long months.

The tension, the longing to have her, to feel her in _that_ way was satisfied in a matter of seconds as Cullen began to thrust his length deep into her core. Pale cum glistened in the lamp light with each withdrawal, and he marveled at how aroused she was, that he did that to her.

The sweating skin of his chest met her back as he released her hands and leaned over, aching for more, more of her, more of _them_ , their connection so raw and visceral, it permeated his entire body. Soft rolls of his hips teased the most salacious sounds from her, muttered words of praise and pleasure alike, sung for him.

For them.

A hand snaked under her hip, his fingers finding the apex of her core to rub soft circles over her throbbing bud, and he would never forget the way her body writhed beneath his, hips rolling against his fingers in time with his thrusts.

“ _More!_ ”

Maker, but she was a mess, ready to fall apart at any second. Her panting breaths shortened, grunts of pleasure that caught in her throat as he pumped into her. And when he slowed, she whined in protest, echoing his body as he stopped.

He curled soft locks of her hair behind her ear and leaned close, lips pressing kisses along her jaw. “Hush, now, pup,” he whispered. “You’ll know your pleasure again.” His free hand curved around her face, cupping her jaw with a firm grasp and fingers playing along her lips. “But not until I’ve had my way with you.”

In a blur of limbs, Cullen spread her legs and knelt between them, withdrawing with a snap of his hips. Amallia whined at the sudden rough treatment as he hauled her hips up to his cock, setting her on her knees. Another urge took over, the urge to have her all to himself, to _fuck_ her.

_Take her._

_She’s mine._

_Claim her._

Her back arched and hips rolled, revealing the sopping folds of her cunt to him, swollen from their lovemaking. One hand grasped a cheek with biting nails, and she hissed a moan in mingled pain and pleasure as he teased her seam with the tip of his cock.

At her entrance, he pressed, the tip gliding in with ease. He released himself, free hand slapping her ass as he grasped it. Lingering there, driving her mad with anticipation, he listened to her beg for him, beg to be fucked, to be spread and filled by his cock, and he succumbed to the urge, unable to resist any longer.

He thrust, hips snapping _hard_ as he jerked back on hers, their bodies meeting with a resounding _smack_ as he drove his entire length into her as deep as he could go.

And then he immediately regretted it.

There was no confusing Amallia's scream of pain for anything but. No perfect blend of pain and pleasure, that thrust had _hurt_ her. Frantic with fear, his arms wrapped around her body, cradling her to his chest as he leaned over her and whispered his apologies.

“Maker, forgive me, I’m so sorry, Mal, please—”

The room spun, a dizzying blur, and Cullen found himself on his back once again staring up at the vision of seduction hovering over him. Amallia, pale and freckled, straddled his hips and grasped his throbbing erection with a firm hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, voice deep in her throat. “Relax. I'll take care of the rest.”

Andraste's blessing, she could do whatever she wanted to him.

But he had to ask her something lest he forget.

“Did you just hip throw me?”

She responded with a nod and her lilting laughter, that infectious song that played along his spine to send shivers across his body. A fresh wave of arousal coursed through his veins as he watched her, fingers wrapped around his erection. Angled to her heat, he moaned before he spoke.

“Take me, Mal.”

She teased him there, tip barely inside, and the ache to feel her, to know every inch of her returned, throbbing so hard in his length that it hurt. He wanted to tell her, tell her what she did to him, how she made his mind reel and filled it with depraved thoughts. But when his lips parted, she lowered herself onto him with one smooth stroke, and the only sound that came out of his mouth was a pathetic whimper.

Her own throaty moan sang with his, head tilting back and mouth falling open as she rolled her hips. Exquisite, the sight of her atop him, straddling him, having her way with him. The sweat-slicked skin of her breasts brushed against his chest as she leaned over, back arching and hips rolling, and Cullen wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. So close. In mind and body, they could be no closer, intimate and carnal and tender all at once.

The glassy stare of her blue eyes mirrored his own, heavily lidded and endless in their lust. Long, nimble fingers carded through his hair, waves he knew were curling into a sweaty mess. Slow, languid rolls of her hips stroked his swollen length, her walls flexing as she neared her climax once more. He moaned with her, growling in frustration at her teasing, and he struggled to remain still, his own hips flexing to reach deeper.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, strong grip tilting his head back, and she held him there as her lips met his in a deep kiss. Tongues tasted and teeth clicked in their impassioned rush to pleasure one another. And then her grasp in his hair loosened, fingertips drawing circles in his scalp and he shuddered beneath all the sensations, his aching cock buried deep in her heat, her entire body, sweaty and scalding against his, those bloody fingers in his hair, and her lips, oh sweet Andraste, those lips on his said more than words ever could.

Everything she gave, he consumed and returned in full, each stroke of his scalp he mirrored on her back, each thrust of her hips he mimicked with his, every whimper and moan and sigh he swallowed, only to echo her in kind.

Moans caught in her throat, trapped by gasping breaths as her hips thrust, gaining speed, and Cullen felt it, her need, flexing deep in her core. He urged her on, whispering to her, encouraging her, begging her to find release as their bodies moved as one, rhythm perfect.

“Come for me,” he growled as she sat up, supporting herself on her hands. “I want to feel you come all over my cock.”

The words were out of his mouth without thought, without hesitation, no regard for how they may sound or how vulgar they felt in his ears. When another moan burst from her lips, growling and gasping, he knew she was right there, the precipice beneath her curled toes, so close to her end, and he was right beside her, _ready_.

“Fuck me!”

He sat up in a rush, lifting her by her ass and rising to his knees, her arms flinging around his neck to hold herself up. Back to the bed he lowered them, keeping her close, his need to feel her against him undeniable. Lips met in feverish kisses, hungry and impatient as he thrust into her, bodies slapping and voices singing their pleasure together. On an impulse, Cullen lifted one of her legs and rested it on his shoulder as he straddled the other. Setting the pace with quick, deep thrusts, he watched his thick length glide between her lips, slick and shimmering in the lamplight. Maker’s breath, but that sight pumped his blood faster and he moaned with Amallia, overcome with raw, primal desire.

“Fuck, yes, I’m gonna come, _fuck me, Cullen!”_

His free hand slipped to her center, smoothing over her hip to find her clit with the flat of his fingers. Each slap of their bodies was punctuated by their echoing moans as he thrust harder, coupled with the circling of his fingers. Repeated flexes of her walls squeezing around his swelling cock shoved him over the edge, orgasm unraveling once more.

“Oh, Mal, I’m – fuck, I’m –”

“Yes! Come with me!”

His lips crashed down upon hers, bodies flush once more as Cullen rutted into her, cock throbbing through his orgasm. Amallia cried out her muffled moan into his lips and he growled into hers, bodies convulsing as they came undone in each other’s embrace. Her hips rolled as her climax spread, a wave of heat enveloping his cock buried deep inside her. And then he released, his seed filling her with each hard flex, each pulse spurting more of the hot fluid into her as he moaned against her flesh.

Wet lips parted as their moans subsided, replaced by exhausted breaths heaving from their chests, and Cullen said the only thing he could think of in that moment, the only clear thought in a mind shrouded by the dense fog of his climax.

“I love you.”

* * *

She giggled as she spoke. “I love you, too.”

Their foreheads touched as they lingered in their embrace, minds clouded by their simultaneous release. As their breathing slowed, soft hums of satisfaction mingled, coupled with easy giggles, until the need to tend to their bodies interrupted the moment.

Beside the bed, Cullen pried a drawer open and withdrew a washcloth. Between them he placed it as his flaccid length fell from her, and Amallia held it there as he rolled to his side. With a quick jump, she sprang from the bed and hurried for his bathroom, ignoring the door behind her.

As she cared for herself, millions of thoughts tumbled through her mind, disjointed, half formed and fleeting as a dream, fading away when she attempted to focus. Brief flashes of their coupling, of their naked bodies, sweating and sticking, were hard to mistake for anything else. Before she returned to the bedroom, Amallia looked to the mirror to find her skin bright, reds and pinks covering the canvas of her skin. Long thin lines marred her back where Cullen had raked her in his eagerness, and crescent marks dotted her hips and her breasts.

A shiver surged up her spine at the site. Their first night together the year prior had been nothing shy of perfect. But _that_? That had been something else, something different, and yet she couldn’t quite determine how. With a shrug, she turned back for the bedroom, shuffling on sore legs.

The sight on the bed halted her in her tracks, eyes popping and mouth falling slack. Cullen was returning to the bed himself, sitting beside a serving tray laden with fruit. From his lazy, sated smile to the tray she looked, back and forth until embarrassment colored his cheeks.

“I thought maybe you – are you hungry?” he asked, stumbling over his thoughts.

“After … whatever that was, I don’t see how I couldn’t be hungry,” she replied, deep voice still hoarse from their lovemaking. A slow saunter returned her to the bed, the perfect seat in Cullen’s lap. She straddled him again, arms behind his neck, and his hands, oh, _Maker_ , how his massive hands splayed on her back from shoulders to hips.

“What do you think it was?” he asked as he plucked a slice of peach from the tray and brought it to his mouth, a soft bite tearing it in half and those kissable lips sucking at the juices.

A dribble at the corner of his mouth beckoned her, demanded her attention, and she obliged, kissing with a swipe of her tongue to taste. Cullen sighed a short, surprised whimper of renewed pleasure as she parted from him, then offered her the other half of the slice.

Before she could take it from him, he drew back and asked, “Well?”

Oh. Right.

“That,” she began, “was amazing. No, _better_ than amazing. No words do it justice. Sex like that … Maker, I get shivers just thinking about it again.”

Cullen sighed a languid sigh of his own as he fed her the peach, foreheads touching once more. “I know what you mean,” he muttered, a deep rumble rolling through her chest. “It’s effortless. Everything you do drives me wild,” he paused as his eyes wandered. “Look! Look at it! You’re just sitting in my lap, and I’m stiff a lamppost again.”

The pink crown of his cock rose just below his belly button, twitching with want and swollen so, Amallia wondered if it was painful. She’d seen her fair share of erections, large and small and everything in between, all shapes and contours and angles and colors. And while the larger ones were fun at times and the smaller ones had plenty to offer in other ways, she thanked her lucky stars that Cullen was perfectly average.

The pink head gave way to pale skin untouched by sun. The thick girth of his shaft was consistent to the base with a slight curve that contoured to his abdomen. Veins lined the flesh, most small with a few more prominent. A soft dusting of dark blonde hair covered his groin and sac, recently trimmed quite close, she noted.

She slipped from his lap to kneel between his thighs, fingers biting into his skin, and his eyes widened so she giggled.

“Since this,” she started as her fingers wrapped around the base of his shaft, “seems to be _my_ fault, I could take care of it. Only if you want.”

Soft, short moans fell from his open mouth as Cullen’s hips rolled into her hand, his fingers grasping the sheets and brow furrowing, eyes screwed shut.

“Amallia,” he sighed, “If you’re … _Andraste, preserve me_ , if you’re offering …”

The heated skin of his erection met her tongue as she licked, teasing the juncture of the shaft at the crown. A loud moan ripped from his chest and his hands flew to the back of her head, gripping her hair, sending a shock of arousal down her spine and straight to her core.

Her tongue swirled along his cock as she tasted him, the smooth, supple skin aching for release again. His masculine scent was mirrored in his flesh, a delicious, earthen taste of which Amallia desired more. And so, she took more, more of him into her mouth, lips gliding down his shaft as her fingers cupped his sac. With a deep breath through her nose, she sucked him in as far as she could, and Cullen whimpered with pleasure.

Little else aroused her like the sounds she extracted from him, knowing the pleasure she gave him. Seeing him unravel was one thing, but listening to his demands, his repeated begging for more slickened her core like little else. And the insistent grasp of her hair at the back of her head turned out to be so erotic, she would need to tell him about it. _I like it when you grab my head and fuck my mouth_. A shiver shot straight to her core at the thought and she hummed a moan as she withdrew his cock from her throat.

When his hands pressed her head down, she whimpered, unable to contain her own arousal, and her free hand dove between her thighs to find her cunt dripping. Fingers coated in her sex, she stroked the swollen bundle of nerves, hips rolling into her hand.

A heavy flex of his cock sent precum down her throat and she moaned once more, walls flexing around her fingers as they spread her. Above her, Cullen’s eyes snapped open to stare into hers, molten amber alight with his nearing orgasm.

He thrust into her, the tip touching the back of her throat once more and her reflex pulled him back with another pathetic whimper. Each twitch and shudder she felt in her mouth, her tongue, her lips as her head bobbed along his length, hand stroking at the base. She wanted him to cum, to feel his seed run down her throat and taste the salt and bitter fluid as it spurted from him.

His bottom lip pulled between his teeth as his chest heaved, and Amallia kept her eyes glued to his, the desire to _see_ him unravel as powerful as her need to taste, to feel it. And Cullen’s insistent words of praise, of begging her to keep going, _yes, suck my cock, Mal, I love fucking your mouth_ , unbound her renewed arousal faster than she thought possible.

A hard spasm halted his hips and a long, hard flex of his cock was all the signal she needed. With a release and another hard pump of the muscle, Amallia felt his seed burst from his cock, spurts shooting into her mouth as Cullen moaned his orgasm out in one long sigh.

She swallowed once, preemptive, ready for more and Cullen gave it to her. Smaller, shorter flexes released more of him into her mouth as she sucked, leaning back for her lips to roll over the crown, a drop of his seed rolling over the corner of her lips.

Her fingers still worked at her center, her own release not far. It would take her only a moment, but as his cock fell from her mouth, Cullen slipped to the floor, kneeling with her and planting his lips on hers, lapping up the bead of his own fluid. She gasped into his mouth as his hand replaced hers, thick fingers spreading and filling her, and he cupped her sex for the perfect friction against her swollen clit.

Bodies flush, her breasts pressed against the smooth planes of his chest and his arm encircled her back. “Come for me, Amallia, I want to feel you come around my fingers,” he whispered, breath hot on her ear.

In an explosion of color and sound, her orgasm burst from her, not unraveling in the slow, methodical way it typically did, but in a rush of sensations, and she cried out, entire body shaking in his embrace. Her thighs quivered, weak and shuddering with each wave of her climax, and the warmth of her quim rushed over his hand. Holding her, supporting her tight against him, Cullen hummed his approval as his fingers worked to give her every ounce of pleasure possible.

When she could hold herself up no longer, Cullen scooped her up in his arms and stood, laying her in the bed. With the food tray moved, he lay down beside her, kissing her cheek as they drifted on the waves of their lingering release.

“That …” she began, “was not what I had planned.”

The warmth of his humming laugh found her heart, and she turned to her side. The roaring fire that she had seen in his amber gaze had cooled to glowing coals.

“I planned none of that, so you’re not alone,” he jested as he reached behind her for the tray and presented her with a plump strawberry. She took it, lips closing around fruit and sucking the juice that dripped as she bit into it.

There they rested, trading bites of fruit as they regained their breath. At some point, her aimless mind caught a snippet of a song floating down the hall, a few lyrics of _Kiss_ drawing a giggle from her chest.

“What?”

Amallia glanced at Cullen as he offered her a grape. “I left the stereo on.”

He laughed with her. “I know. I’ve been listening,” he replied. “There were a few that I will never forget,” he explained as he proffered another strawberry.

She took a bite before she spoke. “Is that so?” she said after she swallowed. “Like which?”

A soft frown creased his lips. “I’ll have to think about it,” he replied. “Want to make sure I capture the right moments.”

“Right moments, hm?” she asked with a crooked grin. “Like when you grab my hair and _fuck_ my mouth?”

As though he’d been injured, Cullen reared back with a grimace. “I’m sorry I said that, it was incredibly vulgar,” he muttered. “I’m not like that, I promise, I respect you and--”

“I never said anything to the contrary,” she interjected and he cut off at her tone. “In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

That did little to assuage his discomfort, so plain on his face. “But it feels wrong. At least, this early in our relationship, it bothers me. I may not always be in that sort of mood.”

Over her shoulder, she reached into the tray and withdrew a slice of pineapple, feeding it to him. “That’s perfectly reasonable. But, don’t ever hesitate to ask to try something,” she clarified. “I’m willing to give just about anything a shot at least once.”

“Anything?”

With a roll of her eyes, she chuckled as she spoke. “Don’t even _try_ to joke with me, I know without a doubt you’re not into pooping on people.”

“Maferath’s _balls_ , who does that?! That’s a thing?!” he shouted, incredulous.

Doubled up with laughter, she tried to speak. “Do you not watch porn at all? And you’ve just proven my point, I know you’re not into much that I’d turn down.”

“I don’t know. I might surprise you,” he replied with a smirk as he pulled her close, bodies an entangled mass of limbs and sweat.

“Try me,” she whispered, breathless as he nipped at her neck, soothing the marks with his lips and his tongue. When he returned to her eyes, his soft lips spread to a shy smile before he spoke.

“I’ll think on it. Maybe once the investigation is finished, I’ll bring it up,” he suggested.

“Bring what up?” Her curiosity hooked, Amallia wanted to know what he desired, what he held in reserve.

“Another day, pup. Give me some time. It requires … coordination,” he hinted.

“Alright,” she resigned with a kiss on his neck. “Don’t keep me in suspense for too long,” she whispered as she reached his ear. “I’m already _aching_ to know what you’ve got planned.”

His cheeks colored with a pink so familiar, Amallia was surprised to find him embarrassed. “I … we’ll get there,” he explained. “Eventually.”

“No rush,” she soothed. “I was only giving you a hard time.”

The deep rumble of a laugh in his chest rolled through her own as he pulled her closer. “A _hard_ time?”

Maker, but the man was insatiable. “I am quite good at it,” she whispered. “But I imagine you need more than fifteen minutes after … after …”

Her thoughts drifted as a gentle hand smoothed over her stomach and dipped between her thighs. “I do,” he replied. “But you know how much I enjoy making you writhe through _other_ means.”

The full, spreading sensation of his fingers between her lips sparked a wave of wildfire searing a path across her skin. Consumed by his desire to pleasure her again, Amallia succumbed to him, her world alight with arousal once more. And though her senses surrendered to his touch, the last measures of music she would remember that night found her ears and she clung to them, desperate for an anchor.

 _But you wash over_  
_You wash over me like rain_  
 _And you fall over me_  
 _You crawl over me like sunshine_

In that momentary awareness, _Wash_ guiding her through the overwhelming stimulation, she understood something new, something she had not felt in many years.

In Cullen’s love, Amallia was safe.


	64. Snitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amodisia and Alistair speak with Cullen over the phone, and Amodisia sheds a little more light on their mystery.

“What do you think?”

Amodisia looked up from the phone, eyes wide as Alistair’s.

“That’s … a disturbing accusation, Cullen,” Alistair began, his usual smarm and sarcasm absent. “Are you positive about this?”

A sigh preceded his baritone grumble. “No. I’m only going on a hunch. You mentioned something a few weeks ago about weird things going on in your office. And then there was the state of the case before we took over. Don’t get me started on what was given to us. They didn’t do any forensic analysis on the bullet. We don’t even know where the damn thing is,” Cullen explained.

Alistair nodded with each point. “Yes, it was a giant mess. I’m going to venture a guess that you have little to no evidence that proves this hunch of yours,” he stated, flat tone frustrated.

“We might have something, but it’s a stretch,” Cullen replied.

She shared a look with her husband, hopeful, but tarnished with concern. “Anything you have to connect someone to this attempt on my life will help, Cullen,” she insisted. “What is it?”

Rustling paper shuffled about on the other end of the line as Cullen mumbled to himself, searching. “Right. All I’ve got is a financial document for a company named _Warden Capitals_. It seems to be some sort of mutual funds business. The timeframe of this financial history is the key, however. Massive amounts of money were deposited and withdrawn from the company in the months preceding the shooting. Everything that was deposited was withdrawn, in varying amounts in what must be an attempt to mask the transactions,” he explained.

_Warden Capitals?_

Cullen droned on, but Amodisia heard nothing but the mantra of that name, repeating like an echo in a dream _._ Something in a memory long forgotten surged to the surface and she blurted out her thought, interrupting the call.

“ _Warden Capitals_?”

The voice on the phone cut off and Alistair glared at her, confusion clouding his face. “Yes,” Cullen began. “Amallia pointed this document out a few weeks ago. She thought the company name was fake. It seemed to be out of place, but I cataloged it as a possible piece of evidence since I couldn’t rule it out entirely,” he clarified.

“Alistair,” she admonished. “They handle the entire Redcliffe police force’s retirement packages. It’s _not_ fake,” she declared. “But how could anyone move money through them?”

A rare grimace creased his brow and pursed his lips. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, she could see it in his eyes as they stared through her, searching. And then she saw something in his hands. A memory stick she had never seen before spun between his thumb and middle digit, twirling with every flick of his index finger, and his eyes dragged to it with a slow roll.

“Amallia has a good eye, Cullen,” he began. “Keep her involved. And don’t move on this yet. I’m going to send you something Anora gave me. I _also_ have a hunch, but I need to check on a few things to confirm it.”

“What’s going on?” Cullen asked, concern palpable.

“We think we’ve got two crooked cops, right?” Alistair started, rhetorical. “They were paid to fuck up this investigation from day one, then. The evidence should have been controlled and yet, this _Warden Capitals_ business shows up.”

Amodisia gasped, an epiphany striking light lightning. “Someone knows about the cover up,” she breathed. “Someone in your office, or on the RPD, but they’re trying to be discrete.”

Alistair beamed his dazzling smile at her. “Did you hear my brilliant wife, Cullen?” he asked while holding her bewildered stare.

“I did. Keep it coming, I’m taking notes. Who’s our snitch?” he replied.

Alistair nodded with his proud smile as he leaned over the table, turning to the phone. “I won’t say who, not yet. I need to meet with the chief of police in Redcliffe, like I said. Just to be sure. We’ll keep you informed as we learn anything new.”

“Alright, don’t fuck around too long, Ali,” Cullen insisted. “I want to see you both at Christmas. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Alistair gasped with an appalled gape of his mouth. “Excuse me, but when was the last time I did anything stupid?”

“Yesterday,” Amodisia blurted, “when you thought sword fighting would be a fun thing to learn because you passed the old armory, and then you threw out your back,” she jested and his gaping mouth split into a grin.

“I was asking Cullen because his memory is shi—”

“When you threw out your back trying to pick up Duncan a week ago. How big is she, now? Sia says the dog weighs more than her,” Cullen interjected.

Aghast, Alistair gaped at her. “Traitor! Giving away state secrets to civilians!”

She smiled a coy smirk as she neared him. “What are you going to do about it?”

Alistair thought a moment, lips quirked and eyes skyward. “There’s a pair of handcuffs with your name on them,” he whispered in her ear as she reached him, hands grasping her backside and picking her up.

“I heard that, Ali.”

“You’ll hear a lot more if you don’t hang up,” Alistair retorted and Amodisia hummed a sigh that drew his attention back to her with a considering look.

“Call me back when you’re no longer torturing your traitor?” he asked.

“Alistair is a very thorough torturer,” Amodisia quipped. “Might be a few hours.”

An impatient groan sounded over the speaker. “Fine. Now that I’m stuck with the imagery, I’ll have to go take it out on Mal.”

“Tell her I said, ‘you’re welcome’,” Alistair suggested with a smirk.

With a short laugh, he hung up, and Amodisia turned her attention back to the man that held her in his massive arms. Alistair started for the bedroom, the phone left behind on the table. “Ready?”

A tingle of excited colored her cheeks and she grinned from ear to ear. “For you, I’m _always_ ready.”


	65. Accounting 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia and Cullen chat while he continues to investigate. And Alistair provides a much needed piece of the puzzle.

Amallia hummed along to the stereo, _Birdland_ accompanying their latest bout of research. As she shuffled through the box of interview DVDs, a familiar itch between her shoulders returned, the questions begging to be asked. “The chief of police? In Redcliffe?”

Cullen shrugged, his attention never leaving the police report before him. “That’s what he said. Might have a way to get an interview with the detectives. Or get a warrant for their finances, see if they’ve come into a specific sum of money recently. That’s what I’d be trying to do, at least.”

Amallia shook her head, confused. “Why the chief of police, though? I’m not following.”

With an impatient sigh, Cullen tore his attention away from the paper to consider her as he spoke. “Why does Alistair want to talk to Duncan?” he asked with a sardonic laugh. “Advice, I imagine.”

Duncan. The Theirins had named their Mabari after the Redcliffe chief of police? “Am I missing something? Who is Duncan to them?” she asked as she returned to the box of DVDs.

Another chuckle from across the table met her ears. “Alistair spent about three years on the police force before quitting to run for governor.”

“And Sia?” she asked, guilt filling the pit of her stomach. Three months after moving to Orlais for graduate school, Amallia had called off their relationship. In her heartbreak, that had been easier than dealing with her feelings.

“Actually,” Cullen began, “Duncan recruited them around the same time. They finished their training programs and Duncan asked them to join RPD. But within a few years, Alistair was more than disenchanted by the work, and Sia thought they could do better for the state. So, Alistair ran for Governor and won.”

“And Alistair maintains contact with Duncan then?” she asked, gripped by curiosity as she pushed the box aside.

Cullen nodded with a smile. “Yes. Sia does, too. He was their mentor and then their boss. I’ve not met him, but they say he is an incredible man.”

She remained silent, returning to the pile of evidence scattered about his desk. “I didn’t know Sia changed her major,” she muttered as she shifted papers with an absent hand. “She wanted be a paralegal. She loves to read and do research.”

“She double majored,” Cullen added as he put down the paper in his hands and frowned at her. “What happened between the two of you?”

 _Birdland_ faded into _Watermelon Man_ as Amallia stared unseeing. Angry shouts and ridiculous ultimatums echoed in a memory long buried. After a moment, reality returned and she shrugged. “Nothing really, it was ridiculous,” she started. “We loved each other. We still do, very much. But when I moved to Orlais for my masters, we agreed the long distance wouldn’t be worth it. It didn’t end well, and I took it personally. We lost touch.”

When he remained silent, she glanced towards him, drawn from the desk full of papers once more. “But were together again,” she said with a smile. “Friends, at least. And the three of you have grown close again.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, an annoyed scoff bursting from his chest. “I’m fairly certain Alistair has no friends. Being the governor cannot help, but he hasn’t changed at all,” he explained, his tone falling softer has he spoke. “Who am I to talk? The two of them kept me from falling apart after Kinloch. Before you, I was alone. Now, the three of you are all I have.”

“Mia would wring my neck if I let you forget about her,” she added.

He nodded with a grin. “Yes, my lovely sister, Mia. And Bran and Ros. And my parents, Maker, those saints. Can you imagine the four of us in one house as kids?”

Amallia laughed at the thought of four blond curly haired children running circles around their parents, Cullen antagonizing Mia, and Rosalie pestering Branson. But the thought faded in a plume of smoke when her eye caught a crumpled paper in Cullen’s fist.

“Maker, what is that?” she asked. “Why are you crushing it?”

Surprised, Cullen’s hand burst apart in a spasm and he tossed the document aside. “It’s nothing, far as I can tell,” he grumbled. “Andraste’s _tits_ , it’s all a bunch of nothing,” he continued with a furious wave his hands at his desk. We have _one_ lead. _One!_ And Alistair—”

As if on cue, Cullen’s phone chirped from his pocket, startling him in his chair. With another grumble, he withdrew it and dragged his thumb across the screen, face contorted in a scowl. Irritation fell to confusion with each swipe of his thumb, and he rose from his chair, papers falling from his lap and mouth agape.

“Maferath’s _balls_.”

Amallia rounded his desk, abandoning the box of DVDs for the last time and crowding against his shoulder. He turned to show her the screen and there she found a spreadsheet staring back at her. Narrow, it had only a few columns, but when she dragged her finger along the screen, hundreds of rows blurred together, scrolling by to reveal ever more.

“Is this what I think it is?” she asked.

Cullen pursed his lips, a tight frown drawing down the corners. “Maybe,” he muttered. “Can you help me tie this out? If we can balance these amounts …”

“Against the  _Warden Capitals_ data …” she continued with a snap of her fingers.

A crooked grin turned up one corner of his lips. “Who knows,” he said with a shrug, “we might even solve this son of a bitch.”


	66. Betrayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the later hours, Loghain finds himself arguing with an idiot an his daughter.

“We should adjourn until tomorrow. It’s getting—”

Anora cut off with a click of her teeth as Loghain shoved back from the table and stood up with a resounding, “No!” Seeing his daughter rattled by his outburst, he backpedaled, lips pursed in a grimace. “I’m sorry, Anora. We need to finish this tonight. The council agreed on the bill as it stands. Submit it tomorrow.”

Across the table, Alistair cradled his forehead in a hand, middle finger and thumb rubbing circles into his temples. “Loghain, we can’t. The new trade restrictions are ridiculous. They’ll force Ferelden into a recession the likes of which we have never seen.”

Typical bleeding-heart Ferelden dog. Loghain sneered at the man across the table, teeth grinding and hackles twitching. “Look, Alistair. We need this. Ferelden is floundering, it needs direction—”

The flat stare Alistair returned to him silenced Loghain for but a second. Were it not for Anora’s presence, Loghain’s patience would have waned far earlier. The governor was insufferable; Ferelden was at major risk of infiltration and manipulation by several states in Thedas and it was because of his policies. With his open borders and many trade agreements, the state produced very little of its own resources, importing much from Tevinter, Orlais, and even Par Volen.

The thought sickened him. They should be self-sufficient, independent. In fact, other states should look to them for resources and goods. But no. Alistair had turned all of that on its head. Ferelden was a shell of its former self and Loghain intended to rectify that.

“Ferelden has direction,” Alistair insisted. “We’re looking to retain the largest surplus the state has seen in three decades. Relationships with our partners are stronger than ever. And unemployment is improving. Fereldans feel like they can start families again, like they’re not just scraping by to make ends meet.”

The tingle in Loghain’s cheeks stung as it enflamed, frustrated that Anora yet remained in the room. He had half a mind to ignore her and lay into Alistair with every ounce of his fury, but that would get him nowhere. Alistair acted on his gut more than anything else, relying on his _feelings_. If he appealed to that, hooked into his emotions …

“Ferelden is risking its citizens’ safety for greed,” Loghain began, choosing his words with great care. “Tevinter? Orlais? They don’t care about us. They think we are beneath them, lesser creatures they can control.”

Alistair stood with a cold glare, throwing it first at Anora, then to him. “That is not true. State security analysis data disproves that. And you walk a fine line, Loghain. I consider you and Anora my best advisors, but what you suggest is paranoia, not to mention hypocritical,” he paused with a gruff sigh. “I am done with this conversation and will not be signing the bill.”

“And I will not, either, sir.”

Time stood still in an infinitesimal second, dragging onward as Loghain considered his daughter standing at the head of the table. No. Not Anora. Not his brilliant daughter. She would not buy into Alistair’s dysfunction, his complete lack of understanding. She was far too shrewd to fall for his bravado, his charisma and charm. There was no way any daughter of his would be duped by such a worthless man.

“There,” Alistair pointed. “The matter is finished. Anora will bring this bill back to the council for further deliberation. We can meet in the morning about the remaining agenda.”

Before Loghain could object, Alistair was shrugging into his duster and heading through the door. And poor Anora stood silent at the head of the long board room table, not looking at him but at the large stack of papers before her.

“You can’t be serious.”

Her calculated glance terrified him, shook him to the core. Torn, frustrated, Anora looked as though she were about to scream. “I am. This bill is … Da, it’s bad. Renegotiating these trade agreements will sour every relationship with the other states that Alistair and I have worked so hard to nurture.”

“They’re _playing_ you, Anora,” he soothed. When she remained silent and staring, Loghain left his seat and approached her, an arm wrapping around her shoulders. “They’re luring you into dependence on their production and before you know it, they’ll pull the rug out from beneath you.”

Anora shook her head, far more confidence than he felt. “That is not true, Da,” she began as she gathered up the bill’s papers, squirming from his grasp. “We’re all in it for the betterment of Thedas,” she continued, stern and stoic. “We’ve learned that hubris and arguing and _war_ accomplish next to nothing.”

There was no hope left in her. There would be no convincing her. She would not understand until it was too late, until she experienced the betrayal of which he spoke. Loghain hung his head in resignation, a slight nod of agreement to assuage her anger.

“I understand how you feel,” he muttered. With a soft smile, he returned his gaze to hers and hugged her close. “Dinner?”

The mere mention of food seemed to cheer her up, eyes bright and smile brighter. “Oh yes, I’m famished! But I’m buying this time, then we’re even. Deal?”

Loghain helped her into her coat and shrugged into his own as they made for the door. With as much enthusiasm as he could muster, he replied, soft and reserved.

“Deal.”


	67. Insider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair reaches out to the last resource they have left.

“Alistair, my boy! So good to hear from you. Been too long since our last conversation.”

He smiled despite his guilt. “It has, Duncan,” Alistair sighed, the right words illusive. When the silence stretched over uncomfortable seconds, the Chief of Redcliffe police spoke in his stead.

“Is something the matter, son?” he asked and Alistair noted a hint of worry, an unease in his voice.

No. Not worry. Fear. He knew. He knew why Alistair was reaching out to him after months of no phone calls, no emails, not even a quick text message. And then it dawned on him, another piece of the puzzle falling into place with ease.

“Duncan, is … is everything okay?”

Another stretch of silence settled over their call, and the pit of Alistair’s stomach fell away as Duncan’s ragged sigh broke the tension.

“Everything is fine,” he started, “But something clearly has you troubled. Speak to me.”

Alistair grimaced, free hand balling into a rock as he struggled to think of the words, of the right way to ask without accusing anyone of anything. Not yet. Not without evidence. If only Duncan would say something, be forward with him was he always was, then Alistair wouldn’t have to risk it.

“I need your help.” When Duncan didn’t reply, he added, “Sir.”

Silent once more, Alistair worried he had pressed him too far. And when he opened his mouth to ask for his help once more, his mentor spoke, a singular word uttered in frustration.

 “Griffon.”

Stunned, Alistair gaped as he stared at the receiver, failing to understand Duncan's message. _Griffon._ What in the world could that possibly mean?

_Griffon._

The receiver crashed home as Alistair dropped it on the base. And then he sat there, alone, trying with a desperate need to understand Duncan’s code. Damn the man for being so cryptic. He should have asked to talk later, in person.

In private.

An absent hand drifted to the drawer of the large, ornate desk, and with an easy pull, it opened. Beneath stacks of paper he dug, searching, seeking, until cool metal and soft leather found his fingertips. He seized the object, grasping it firm, and withdrew from the depths of the drawer.

A large silver badge, appearing much smaller in his massive hand, rested in his palm, winter sunlight glinting on the metal. His badge number and surname emblazoned in gold on metal shaped like a scroll shown in a soft, pale yellow between two talons.

 _Griffon_ talons.

Every police officer in Ferelden had a badge like his, designs varying from city to city. But the theme across the entire state remained the same. A fierce griffon, wings lifted in mid stroke and beak parted in a silent scream. The long, tufted tail curled around the rim of the badge to entwine with the tip of an olive branch at the crest

His thumb passed over the glittering emblem, a symbol that once meant a great deal to him. It still did, in a way, a reminder of where he had come from, who he was. He remembered why he had wanted to be a police officer; yes, to protect but ultimately to serve. That need to serve his fellow man had taken him to the governor's seat. Though he had done much to improve the lives of Fereldans and relations with other states, he had hoped to do more.

 _Now you can_ , he thought.

He rose from his chair, still studying the badge in his hand as options – _actions_ – tumbled through his mind. _Choices_ , he knew. But which was the right one?

He snatched the phone from the receiver and jammed a button, the tone ringing once before the line responded. “Yes, Mr. Theirin?”

“Wynne, can you come in here?” he started. “I need your help.”

Their brief call ended with a perfunctory click and Alistair leaned against his desk, resting on the edge as he waited. Not a moment later, Wynne entered through the side door of his office and took a seat across from him, pen and paper ready.

Maker, how did he ask it of her? A thousand versions of the question ran through his head as he stood and rounded his desk, pacing, the badge between his fingers, spinning. Thought ignored it, Wynne’s studious glare bored a hole into his stomach, and his nerves itched beneath his skin like a million ants unable to escape.

She’d been there since the beginning, joining as his campaign manager long before the rest. Through thick and thin, Wynne stuck by him as sure as his own wife, and held not a single doubt in his vision for Ferelden.

 _Ferelden_.

He stopped beside his chair, pocketing the badge and leaning over the desk, hands grasping the edge. With a deep breath, he gathered his resolve and spoke.

“I need to get to Redcliffe.”

A brow lifted towards her hairline as she continued to study him. “I'm going to assume the state plane is not an option.”

He grimaced, guilty as charged. “This discussion doesn’t leave this room. Can you make sure I get to Redcliffe without anybody but the two of us knowing?”

Wynne stood, smoothing her skirt and righting her blouse. “Be ready to leave in two hours, sir. You'll be contacted with instructions. I suggest you go straight to the manor and pack.”

“No need,” Alistair chuckled with a grin. Hoisting his messenger bag, he followed Wynne to the door.

“I’ll borrow some clothes while I'm there.”


	68. The Griffon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia and Cullen's date night is interrupted.

Amallia glared across the table when Cullen’s sheepish smile failed to quell her anger. His phone sat on the table beside his drink, buzzing with an incessant need for attention.

“Who keeps messaging you?”

Cullen looked at his phone. “Alistair. Not important.”

The irritation ebbed and her face softened as she thought. “Maybe it’s about the case,” she suggested before she took a bite of her dinner.

A week shy of Christmas, she’d begged off cooking in favor of spending time with Cullen and he had agreed with enthusiasm. So, there they sat in the very restaurant they were to have shared their first true date last August, the dim speakeasy booth and accompanying jazz wrapping them in their own private little world.

“Maybe,” he said through his food. “It can wait. The company is far more entertaining.”

Amallia shook her head with an eye roll, unbidden smile curling her lips. “You're terrible.”

“Terribly awesome,” he chuckled.

“Sure,” she shot back, “if that helps you –”

His phone chirped for the fifth time and her patience ran out, tolerant no longer. “Just check? Please, it's making me nervous.”

Cullen sighed as he picked up his phone and swiped the screen with his thumb. Amallia returned to her food but only for a second. Cullen's fork fell to his plate with such a clamor, heads turned to stare, including Amallia's.

“What’s wrong? Is it Sia?” she whispered, voice cracking under the strain of worry.

“No,” he muttered, confused scowl turning down the corners of his mouth. “He’s … Mal, I think he’s here. In Redcliffe.”

“What?!” she hissed. “Why? What’s going on?!”

Cullen shook his head as he stuttered. “I don’t know. He needs a place to stay.” He shook his head and continued. “I think he’s … I think he’s at Duncan's.”

“Then let’s go,” she said as she grabbed her coat and stood, tossing cash on the table to cover their bill. “Something’s up if he’s here and nobody else knows.” She shrugged into her coat and turned for the stairs but stopped when she saw Cullen still seated. “C'mon!”

Her furious stare spurred him into action, Cullen grabbing his coat and sliding from the booth in a haggard rush to follow her. The tight panic in her chest eased when the warmth of his hand enveloped hers in a tight squeeze as they ascended the steps.

“Everything is fine, Mal,” he whispered, the deep hum of his voice rolling through her chest. “He would have said something if it wasn't.”

Amallia returned the squeeze of his hand as she pushed through the door and stepped out into the frigid December air. Her breath caught in her chest at the sudden onslaught is freezing wind whipping around them with winter’s fury. Cullen wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her close as they walked with an awkward gate to her car.

“Maybe he's found something?” she suggested, silence unbearable. They rounded the corner before Cullen responded, sounding less confident than his words suggested.

“He would have sent anything he found,” he stated. “And called ahead of time,” he added as they approached the car.

Amallia clamored into the driver's seat with haste, slamming the door shut and starting the car for warmth. When Cullen closed his door, she turned to him, eyes wide with understanding. “Not if what he found was something he couldn't send.”

She pulled away from the block in a quick pop of the clutch, heading for the highway. Cullen’s glazed stare focused on his phone, fingers working at the screen. “I'll get directions,” he offered.

With their route decided, Amallia drove and Cullen continued to stare ahead, blank and unseeing. When the silence impeded her thoughts once more, she jammed the button on the steering wheel for a musical distraction. _Wayward Son_ swelled to life, filling the car, and Amallia breathed a laugh through her nose at the coincidence.

Pale highway lamps flickered by as they sped along, heading northeast to the outskirts of town, but the directions suggested that the chief of the Redcliffe police department lived near Lake Calenhad. As their destination inched ever closer on the digital map, a thicker layer of snow covered the ground and a distinct heaviness settled in the back of Amallia’s mind, a nagging worry unrelenting in its bid for her attention.

After a few turns down side streets, they arrived at the quaint lakeside house, cheery holiday lights twinkling in the surrounding darkness. Surreal, the house shown like a glittering gem, eaves covered in heavy snow that sparkled in the moonlight. In the driveway, Amallia left the car in gear and pulled the hand break, shutting off the engine and exiting with haste.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked as he rounded the car and offered his arm. Treacherous ice covered the walkway and she yet wore her heels from work, so she gladly wrapped her arm under his, holding tight as they shuffled to the door.

“No,” she muttered. “I'm terrified. Why is he here?”

Cullen shrugged, far more optimistic than his usual self. “I'm sure everything is fine.”

“Then what are we doing in the middle of nowhere at the chief of police's house?” she scoffed as they climbed the steps and she cursed the silence that befell the man beside her.

The door swung wide before they reached it, the dark visage of Duncan welcoming them in with a sweep of his arm. “Welcome,” he began as they entered. “He’s down in the den.”

Amallia handed her coat to Duncan and turned for the stairs but was stopped short of the threshold.

“Papa!”

A dark blur of curls and a pink nightgown rounded a corner, colliding with Amallia's legs. She stumbled a step before looking down into the largest dark brown eyes she had ever seen, iris and pupil indiscernible. The little girl could be no more than five, all limbs and beautiful black spiral curls and skin dark as night.

Kneeling, Amallia asked, “Can I pick you up?”

The little girl nodded with enthusiasm, reaching up with grasping hands, and Amallia scooped her up into her arms, holding her to her hip. “And what’s your name?”

“Lydia,” she whispered.

“Hello, Lydia. I’m Amallia,” she said as she carried the little girl over to Cullen. “And this is Cullen.”

“Hi, ‘Mallia,” she mumbled. “Hi, Cull’en.”

“Lydia,” Duncan stated, a soft tone of warning in his voice. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I—I heard you,” she stuttered. “Mama said I could come down stairs.”

On cue, a woman rounded the corner from the stairwell, large eyes and skin matching her daughter’s. “So you could kiss your father and tell Alistair goodnight. Have you done either of those things yet, young lady?”

Lydia cowered with a devious grin into Amallia’s arms. “No,” she said with a giggle. “I found ‘Mallia.”

“Maker’s breath, girl, do you think she wants to hold you all night?” Lydia’s mother asked. When Lydia pouted, Amallia spoke.

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. …” she trailed off, unaware of how to address Duncan’s wife.

“Tanya, please,” she replied. “Are you sure?”

Amallia looked to Lydia, smiling. “As long as Lydia doesn’t mind.” The little girl smiled with a giggle and hugged her close, her full head of curls filling her nose with a light, earthen scent.

“Love, this is Amallia and Cullen,” Duncan began, and Tanya took their hands in turn. “They are friends of Alistair’s, living in Redcliffe,” he continued. “Amallia was—”

“Maker’s _breath_ , look at it,” Tanya started as she touched the scar on Amallia’s bicep. When she flinched, the other woman snatched back her hand with a frown. “Sorry,” she muttered.

Amallia shook her head. “Oh, no, it’s fine,” she started, turning out her arm to show her the whole scar. “My grip isn’t what it used to be, but other than that, I’m fine.”

“I saw it,” Tanya continued, staring with wide eyes. “Watched them replay it on the news over and over again,” she rambled, thought fading. “You’re here about that?”

Amallia nodded as she set Lydia down. Kneeling, she held the little girl by the hands and spoke. “Think it’s time for bed?”

Lydia pouted once more, but her insolence was short lived. When she considered both her mother and father, she frowned and nodded, then leaned in to kiss Amallia on the cheek. “Goodnight, ‘Mallia.” Her little feet tapped along the floor as she sprinted to Cullen, looking up at him expectantly and hands on her hips.

He knelt before her, eyes level with hers, and she leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Cull’en.” With one last kiss for her father, and a somewhat sullen, “Goodnight, Papa,” she turned in a whirl of curls and sprinted for the stairs, feet stomping all the way up to her bedroom.

“Oh, that girl,” Tanya started. “Sweetest thing in Thedas, but Maker, she has a backbone of steel. Thank you for not indulging her too much. There are _those_ that are powerless against her,” she explained with a pointed look at Duncan who smiled a toothy smile.

He led them to the stairs then, prompting Tanya ahead of him with a hand at the small of her back. “Well, then. To business?”


	69. Hibernation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, Duncan brings everyone up to speed.

The den was cozy, intimate and warm. Dark red walls and pale carpet paired with a low ceiling, rich cedar book shelves surrounded Amallia as though she were in an actual bear den, except for the wet bar in the far corner.

And there, leaning against the polished cedar rail, stood Alistair, holding a wide, shallow glass, empty but for the last swallow of brown liquor at the bottom. His white shirt hung open, buttons at the neck undone with a loosened green tie. Navy slacks clung to his hips, his belt missing. Brown oxfords covered navy argyle socks, one ankle exposed by a leg propped on a bar stool.

Eyes the color of warm honey brightened as he spotted them, a soft smile hooking one corner of his mouth. And though he saw them both, he lingered on Cullen a moment longer before hefting a tray of drinks from the bar.

“Alistair, sit, I’ll take care of it,” Duncan admonished and Alistair obeyed, turning back for the couch and taking a seat beside Cullen. Amallia sat to his left, and Tanya took up a chair beside them as she spoke.

“I understand you’re in the middle of an investigation,” she asked, addressing Cullen. “But you don’t work for Duncan, though?” she clarified as she folded her burgundy cotton dress between her crossed knees.

Cullen shook his head. “No, ma’am. I was … indirectly involved with the shooting,” he explained. “Alistair and Amodisia asked that the security firm I work for, REDIS, provide extra security that day.”

“Evidently,” Alistair added, “I’d been right about that hunch. Just wanted to make sure everyone knows that I was right. The diner was a stupid idea.”

Cullen turned to him with an irritated scoff. “The diner was _your_ stupid idea.”

“I never said it wasn’t, it absolutely was _my_ terrible idea,” he agreed. “Still, I reached out to Cullen’s firm in September to keep up with the investigation. Redcliffe PD wasn’t …”

He cut off with a click of his teeth, eyeing Duncan with a guilty frown. Laden with the tray of drinks, he rejoined them, sitting in his own chair beside Alistair. Dower, his hooded glare and angular cheekbones cut an intimidating figure, all framed by thick black hair. Square and strong, his bearded jaw ground as he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the neck of his white captain’s shirt.

“Redcliffe PD was doing absolutely nothing,” he finished his governor’s thoughts. “I knew something was wrong immediately. I just wish it hadn’t taken _you_ as long to come to the same conclusion.”

Alistair grunted. “I was preoccupied. And terrified for Sia.”

Maker’s breath, she’d nearly forgotten about Amodisia. “Where is she, Alistair?”

Alistair gave her a reassuring pat on the knee. “Not to worry, she’s at home in Denerim. The manor is heavily guarded and has one of the most advanced security systems. She’s safe.”

Amallia glared at him. “Does she know you’re here?”

Alistair dug his phone from his pocket and tossed it to her as he picked up a drink from the tray. Amallia read the long conversation between Alistair and his wife starting earlier that afternoon. When she finished, two drinks remained on the tray, a short tumbler with reddish brown liquor and a large chunk of ice, the other filled with clear liquor and overloaded with crushed ice.

“Is _this_ safe?” she asked as she returned his phone to him and picked up the dark drink.

“Dagna wrote it,” Alistair explained. “Some ridiculously complex program that I’m not able to explain, she said it would be the safest way to communicate while I was away.”

“Dagna?” Duncan asked. “ _My_ Dagna?”

Alistair rolled his eyes once more, sarcastic as ever. “Yes, _your_ Dagna. I needed a closed channel to communicate with Sia while I was away and Dagna came through,” he explained, then returned his warm gaze to her. “Trust me, Mal, I know what she means to you. To us,” he assured her. “But she also wants this case solved. So, I’m not stopping for anything. If a lead comes up, I’m following it.”

Cullen perked up at that, swallowing a short sip of his drink. “Speaking of leads, why didn’t you just call me?”

Alistair looked from him to Duncan with a confident grin. “Would you like the honors? You tell it much better than I do.”

Duncan stood before them, picking the remaining glass from the tray and handing it to his wife. She smiled her thanks, then sipped from the tumbler as she settled in for Duncan’s explanation. The chief of remained standing, towering over them as he regaled them with his insider’s information.

“From May to August, the case was worked like any other,” he began. “Evidence was collected, logged, analyzed, and filed away. Given the staggering number of leads, I thought my detectives had this one in the bag,” he explained. “Boxes upon boxes of interviews, video and audio recordings of the event, eye-witnesses, and mounds of documentation.”

Cullen snarled at the last, hackles rising in fury. “They lied,” he spat. “It was a façade to make everyone believe they were investigating. Most of that evidence was just useless cannon fodder for anyone insane enough to try to sort it all out. They did it to derail the investigation.”

“Permanently,” Alistair added.

Duncan frowned as he continued. “I am partly to blame for that,” he started with a ragged sigh. “I knew it was happening and I could have put an end to it, could have stepped in and cleaned it all up. But, I didn’t want to tip my hand. As far as the two detectives were aware, they took care of everything and nobody knew otherwise.”

He fell silent then, arms folding across his chest and eyes staring ahead unseeing. A sip from his drink was robotic, wrote, like a program his mechanics followed without question. When he spoke again, his voice was so quiet, Amallia leaned closer to hear him.

“There wasn’t enough evidence to implicate the detectives,” Duncan continued. “By the time I realized there was a problem, it was too late. Most of the evidence that would have netted us the shooter or his employer was destroyed. And I couldn’t let on that I knew. It wasn’t just about the shooting anymore. There was a cover-up.”

Amallia interjected then, unable to remain quiet. “So, you sent in a … _reverse_ mole to plant the Warden Capitals document.”

As if she had breathed new life into him, Duncan’s eyes brightened. “Precisely,” he agreed, eager once more. “If I could prove the detectives were intentionally sabotaging the case, then I could expose them.”

“And,” Amallia began as she stood, “that’s leverage. You could find out who put them up to it.”

“We could,” Duncan started, “but that would require hard evidence to even bring them in for questioning and –”

“But we have hard evidence,” Amallia interrupted, struggling to keep quiet in her excitement. “Alistair sent it to Cullen just a few days ago. It all ties out; where the money came from, filtered through Warden Capitals, and then where it went.”

Cullen’s side-eyed glare of warning stung, deflating her excitement. They were so close, how could he let a partial truth bother him? The police could investigate the missing money later, when they had an actual case.

“Alistair, I want nothing more than to help,” Duncan began, “but you’ve got to swear to me you have concrete evidence.”

“I will when you let me talk to your mole,” Alistair stated with a smirk.

“You mean when Cullen talks to my mole,” Duncan corrected, “seeing as that he’s the only licensed private investigator in the room. Amallia, I hope you’ve been extremely careful, you really should not be involved at all.”

“I ah,” she stuttered as she returned to her seat, another hole punched in her bubble. “I only know what Cullen’s discussed with me. I’ve helped him look at what those detectives considered evidence, but I think the investigation, at this point, is beyond legal protection given what they did to it, no?”

A crooked, yet thoughtful smile spread across his lips, leaving her confused. “Ever thought about a career in law?”

Void take her, but she gaped. “I would make for a terrible lawyer,” she excused. “Not to mention, the work seems a little boring,” she added with a jab at Cullen. “All that paper work …”

Duncan chuckled, a knowing sound. “You’re not wrong,” he started. “Well, then, it seems we have an actual case on our hands again. Cullen, I’ll put you in contact with my man. Alistair, you may want to head home tonight, yet.”

“Yes, sir,” Alistair said, deferential to his mentor as usual. “Another drink wouldn’t hurt? For the road?”

Duncan accompanied him to the bar, an arm around his shoulders as they talked of a time years ago, remembered with fond reverence.


	70. Confirmation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Alistair have a short conversation before leaving Duncan's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to apologize for this up front. I shouldn’t feel like I have to, but I do. I’ve seeded the beginnings of this half of my OT4 several chapters ago, but this next part leaves little to the imagination. So if Cullen x Alistair weirds you out, you may want to just skip this chapter. It’s not NSFW. It’s quite cute and fluffy. But if you don’t like the pairing, feel free to ignore, I won’t take offense.

“Are you okay?”

Maker, was it that obvious? Nervous fingers tapped on the polished wood of the bar, keeping time with _Take 5_. But when Alistair spoke with a worried crease to his brow and glancing to his hand, Cullen stopped, grasping the rail as he struggled to maintain his composure. The man sipped his drink, eyeing him over the rim of his glass with a devious smirk and a flutter in Cullen’s chest drew his breath short.

“I’m … alright,” he began as he set his drink on the bar. An absent hand ran through his hair to rub the back of his neck. “I’ve not done any work like this before,” he continued, seizing words to deflect. “Aveline insisted I have a PI license in case REDIS needed it,” he finished, a hand waving off the thought.

Alistair chuckled as he set his forearm on the bar with a casual lean, his easy smile warming his heart and Cullen marveled in that sensation, a flush heating his cheeks. It had been years since he and Alistair had spent any substantial amount of time together, professionally or personally. The last few months had revealed a new truth about Alistair for which Cullen had only ever hoped.

And even then, he couldn’t be sure. Amallia had stated as much last month on her birthday, but still, Cullen struggled to believe his own feelings, let alone her intuition. Every time it occurred to him to simply talk with Alistair and clear the air, he dismissed it without a second thought. No, nothing good would come of it. At the very best, Alistair would brush him off, but even that would be difficult for him to handle. And at the very worst, he’d alienate one of the few friends he had, and he would second-guess his decision for the rest of his life, and he’d never forgive himself for ruining such a wonderful friendship …

“Cullen?”

The sudden interruption scattered his thoughts, reality returning in a rush. Not a foot away, Alistair stood, so close, much closer than a moment earlier, his light, airy scent filling his nose. A warmth covered his hand resting on the bar and Alistair repeated himself.

“Cullen?” he asked again, squeezing his hand. “Talk to me.”

“I-ah … I’m …” he muttered, a fog clouding his thoughts and his hand reached out, instinctive, reactive. It found the other man’s hip, holding him there lest he come any closer, too close for the given company.

The softest note of a sigh fell from Alistair’s lips and thank the Maker only Cullen had heard. There was no other explanation. Alistair _must_ feel the same way. But after so many years apart, how could that be possible?

Freckles and honeyed eyes stared back at him, returning his wide-eyed stare with equal incredulity. Maybe Alistair was confused as he, unwilling to trust his feelings, failing to understand why he felt the way he did. A knot in his brow suggested as much, bottom lip drawn between his teeth, biting back another sigh as Cullen squeezed the supple muscle at his hip rippling with tension beneath his shirt.

“Come with me.”

His lips parted, stunned, and for a second, Cullen wanted nothing more than to agree, to go with Alistair wherever the man wished him to go. But fear stole the words, and with his mouth still agape, he whispered, “What?”

“Come with me to Denerim,” Alistair begged. “We could … put the entire case together there. Bring Mal, Sia is dying to see her, they could use some time together,” he rambled, trailing off as he leaned in another inch. “ _We_ could use some time together.”

“Ali,” he sighed as he pushed back, “I’m … I have to meet with Duncan’s informant tomorrow. I can’t.”

Alistair frowned looking not unlike a scolded puppy and Cullen, overcome with guilt, cried out in protest. “No, wait, I didn’t … Maker’s breath, I don’t know what I mean.”

His friend shrugged a casual motion so wrought with indifference, Cullen’s heart ached to tell him the truth. “It’s fine, I understand,” he started, then laughed. “Ridiculous thing for me to suggest really, of course you’re up to your eyeballs in this case, and you need to be here for that, Denerim would be—”

Caught in his throat, Alistair’s rambling ceased as Cullen relented, easing the other man closer. “Alistair,” he started with a firm caress of his thumb at his hip. “It’s fine,” he whispered so quiet Alistair leaned in and Cullen acquiesced, losing himself in the moment. “We’d love to visit. I … I miss you.”

His typical, casual smarm returned in a second, a smirk hooking one corner of his lips and Cullen’s heart hammered in his chest.

“You miss me, hm?”

_Andraste’s flaming sword, he is gorgeous._

“I miss both of you,” Cullen quipped as he forced himself to part from the other man and return to Amallia on the far side of the den, a distinct groan of frustration from Alistair following him.


	71. Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen meets with Duncan’s inside man.

The crowded coffee shop had been the perfect choice. The din of conversations, the occasional screech of the steamer, and silverware on porcelain – accompanied by _Norwegian Wood_ – assuaged his concern of meeting in broad daylight. And as if to further convince him, a man sat at a small table near the windows, alone but for his cup and the _Daily Herald_ in his hands.

After a short wait in the queue, Cullen joined the man, chair rasping against the tile. Across from him, the man folded his paper, setting it aside, and without preamble, spoke.

“Do you really think you can get this to go to trial?”

Dark and grim, the man had a glare sharp as a dagger. Years on the night shift and regular beat-cop patrols in Redcliffe showed in the deep lines at the corners of his eyes, yet he wore them like his badge, with pride.

Silent, Cullen stirred his coffee before responding. “With enough evidence and the undoubted not guilty plea from the accused, it should go to trial. But I can’t promise anything. He may have already gotten to a judge by now.”

The other man’s eyes fell from his, lips stretching to a thin, disapproving frown as he dragged a hand through his black hair. “Alright, Mr. Rutherford,” he started, “what about my family? This … it implicates my father.”

Cullen nodded, understanding. Duncan’s informant was in a bad way, caught between his duty as an officer and his loyalty to his family. “I'll do what I can, but the accused may give him up. Alternatively, if your father testifies, his sentence will be loads lighter. And that’s even if the jury commits him. If there isn’t much evidence supporting his involvement, he may walk. Or better yet, he might not even see a day in court.”

That did little to ease the other man’s frustration. With a resigned sigh, he spoke. “Alright. I'll do it. What do you need from me?”

Cullen finished his coffee and slid the cup aside. “Tell me everything you know about this assassination attempt. No detail is too small to leave out, so give me everything you’ve got.” He pulled a recording device from his pocket and set it on the table, pressing the little red button and turning it to capture their voices. “Let’s start with your name.”

For a second, he hesitated and Cullen thought he might back out as he eyed the recorder. But then he leaned forward, fingers wrapping around his cup of tea as he spoke.

“My name is Nathaniel Howe.”


	72. Too Many Cooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Christmas upon them, Amallia panics about dinner, but Cullen knows exactly how to help her relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. And no, that is not how Cullen helps Amallia relax! (Not that Amallia minds). I’m sorry (not sorry) for this mostly plot-less bit of smut.

Hotter than the surface of the sun, Amallia wiped her brow dry as she triple-checked the pot on the stove while stirring the contents of the pan beside it. On the back burners, she kept sauces warm, the oven ticking down the minutes on a large ham. Four slow cookers took every outlet in the kitchen, two bubbling with sliced roast beef, the third keeping her signature red sauce and meatballs warm, and the fourth finishing the sweet potatoes.

Cullen had voiced his thoughts earlier that morning, insisting everything was under control, that the food would come out just fine, that everyone would love it and nobody would mind eating at a card table like they had at Harvest dinner. But no matter his reassurances, Amallia’s worry boiled over, and by mid-morning, she was a frantic mess.

It was around four o’clock when, as she mashed potatoes in a pot, her use of the masher growing furious by the second, that Cullen wrapped her up in his arms from behind and drew her away from the stove top.

“I think you should take a break, pup,” he muttered.

She shook her head in vehement disagreement. “No, I’m almost done, just … a few more minutes,” she protested. “I’m almost done.”

“I'll finish up,” he insisted, slipping the utensil from her fingers. “Why don’t you head to the bathroom and relax a little?”

She glared over her shoulder, finding a knowing smirk on his lips. He was up to something, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What did you do?” She slipped from his arms and made for the hallway with haste.

“Nothing you won’t love,” his muted voice followed.

When she rounded the corner to her bathroom, flickering shadows and dim candlelight engulfed her, an eerie orange glow that shimmered across the surface of bubbles that filled her tub like a million tiny diamonds.

“Oh, Rutherford, you tit.” An unbidden smirk creased her lips, try as she might to hide it. Damn that man, he knew her too well.

Her t-shirt fell to the floor followed by her pants and as she neared the tub, a waft of heather, sea salt,  and a hint of pine filled her nose. She inhaled with a deep breath, relishing in the crisp, refreshing aroma. With a measured step, her eyes fluttered shut as she slipped into the tub, one foot and then the other.

Easing to her bottom, she submerged to her chest, the foamy bubbles covering her to her collar bone. Hot, almost too hot, the water scalded her pale skin a bright pink in seconds, but that brief sting of heat as she settled into the bath passed into a soothing soak, drawing out every ache in her muscles and every worry in her mind.

Two hours later, she was refreshed, no longer smelling of her kitchen, her purple waves artfully blown dry, and her chosen dress for the evening – a deep emerald green – all buttoned but for a few between her shoulders. With one last check in the mirror, she stalked from the bathroom and returned to the kitchen, ready to resume command of the food.

“Cullen, I think I forgot to start the penne before I—” she paused when she found Cullen gaping as he stirred a pot of noodles. “What’s wrong?”

Like a starving cat, Cullen licked his lips as his eyes dropped to her plunging neckline, then turned back to the task at hand with a sharp flick of his head. His cheeks flushed red, though whether from embarrassment or the heat of the kitchen, Amallia couldn’t be sure.

“Nothing,” he managed through a strained whisper.

Amallia crossed the kitchen and turned her back to him. “I can’t reach.”

The reserved sigh that fell from his lips drew heated breath along the exposed skin of her spine, sending gooseflesh rippling along her arms. A dull clank startled her, head whipping about to find Cullen removing the pot of penne from the heat. Returning to her, deft fingers brushed the bare skin of her back, gliding higher until they reached a fixed button and unfastened it.

“You little shit, just— _oh!_ ”

The far counter met her hips with steadfast support as Cullen pressed into her. The urgency, the insistent need in his prying fingers and devouring lips sent a dizzying rush of arousal to her sex. There against the marble he pinned her, unfastening the remaining buttons up to her neck and grinding his length, still in his trousers, against her backside.

“Cullen, what— _Maker’s breath_ , what are you doing?” she gasped, overwhelmed by his desire.

“I want you,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear and breath scalding her sensitive skin. A hand slipped into her dress, snaking to the front to cup a breast and tease her nipple to a taut peak. Andraste preserve her, but she wanted him, too, a soft mewling moan slipping past her lips. Losing herself in the torrential surge of their arousal, her hips rolled into him, wanting him as he wanted her.

“Please?”

Oh, how he must ache for her, the need cracking his voice as he begged. Gasps of his breath scalded her neck and the prying of his fingers tugged at her hip and pinched her breast. Each moan, each roll of his hips, each kiss from her neck to her shoulders washed over her in a relentless wave of lust, her eyes rolling closed as she drifted in that endless ocean of overwhelming sensation.

“Take me, Cullen,” she whispered with another roll of her hips, stroking his hardened length through their clothes.

He lifted the hem of her dress with a flick of his hand and the heat of the kitchen seared across the sensitive flesh of her ass. Cullen gripped one cheek, hand firm and hard, spreading her and he moaned his own sound of desire, of want. His fingers pried at her underwear, dragging them down to her knees to reveal her flesh, and another growling moan rumbled from his chest as she arched her back, relishing her exposure. When his thumb ran over her seam, dragging through her arousal, she shuddered, a shiver of lust from head to toe.

She cried out in protest when both hands left her, but they were absent only a moment as Cullen freed his length from his pants. His heavy cock met her backside with a lewd _smack_ as his hands returned to her hips, and she moaned, soft repeated sighs that left her lightheaded, so thrilled by his need to have her at that very moment _in the Maker damned kitchen_.

His hips withdrew and his length slid along her ass, the head falling to part her lips between aching thighs. Not a moment earlier, she’d been bone dry – she’d made sure of that. But now? It was his fault she was a sopping wet mess, arousal near to dripping from her core. Andraste’s tits, but he was good, _so_ good at extracting the most exquisite pleasure from her, doing so as if he had known her for years.

Gasping for breath, Amallia moaned in anticipation, the pressure of his swollen cock at her center unbearable. Though the thought had been far from her mind only a moment earlier, she needed him, _now_ , filling her to the brim with his thick manhood lest he deny her of further pleasure.

As if he could read her mind, a quick snap of his hips buried his cock in her cunt, his pelvis meeting her ass with a resounding _slap_ and Amallia trembled with shock, crying out in a keening moan that faded as he withdrew.

It wasn’t the prettiest of lovemaking. Nor was it skilled or dexterous or even alluring. Cullen hunched over her back, one arm wrapping over her hip to tease her swollen clit, the other returning to her breast, fingers biting into the tender flesh and thumbing her pebbled peak. And he pounded into her with wild abandon, relentless in his need to have her, to _fuck_ her, and she cried out to him, his name falling from her lips, repeated like a stanza from a song. He echoed with her name muttered like a prayer into the flesh of her neck, her shoulder, her back as his lips and tongue soothed her skin where his teeth found purchase.

More, she needed more, more of him, more of his whimpering moans, his fingers at her core, at her breast. She met his thrusts with her hips, wanting to feel him as deep as he could reach. Her legs trembled, knees weak with the rush of arousal unwinding in her core, spread so wide as he thrust. With her help, his length found the perfect depth, coaxing her climax to the surface from within, and it wasn’t long at all before she felt that unraveling just above her sex, splitting at the seams.

“ _Fuck_ me, Cullen!” she cried out, “I’m … yes! Harder!”

His rough grunts followed each slap of their bodies, punctuated by small whimpers of overstimulation, of overindulgence in their most base desires. The thought of him, a weak and trembling mess because of the way she felt on him, the way _she fucked him_ , tipped her over the edge, that precarious precipice she knew so well, and she plunged head-first into euphoria.

Cullen curled against her back, the firm expanse of his chest flush with her skin and rutting into her with shorter, smaller thrusts as her walls flexed with her orgasm. Her voice carried whimpering moans, one after the other as pulsing waves of pleasure washed over her with each thrust of his hips. Hard, heavy twitches from his length slowed him, growls and grunts turning into whimpers and moans as his orgasm consumed him.

The heat of his seed filled her in another wave of pleasure; his first flex was the strongest, she’d learned, releasing almost all his seed in one long spurt. Then came the aftershocks, the shorter, softer flexes that released smaller beads of his fluids, and Amallia mewled her pleasure with his gasping moans, drawing out his pleasure for as long as possible.

When he slumped against her back, a forearm on the counter and a hand still grasping her breast, Amallia took a deep breath, easing herself down from her high. Cullen’s lips found her cheek, and she turned over her shoulder to meet him with a kiss so tender, she might have melted.

“I … don’t know what came over me,” he muttered as they parted and he withdrew, righting himself in his pants.

“I don’t either, but I loved it,” she said with a smirk as she straightened, replacing her underwear and smoothing her dress. With his hand in hers, she led them to her bedroom to clean up before guests arrived. “Next time,” she said over her shoulder, “don’t insist I bathe first. Now I have to take _another_ shower. But I think you ought to join me.”

“As long as you’ll let me finish what I started,” he quipped as he followed.

Her imagination ran wild with possibilities. “I won’t turn down another orgasm, if that’s what you’re saying,” she retorted.

Cullen’s laughter was nothing short of confidence, a sound so rare Amallia vowed to hear it for the rest of her days.


	73. Key Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen receives a phone call during their Christmas party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened, my hand slipped and the chapter ended up being half smut. Whoopsie.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-one people invited and every single one of them had responded and showed.

They filled her otherwise spacious apartment, crowding the living room, dining, and kitchen, consuming every inch available. The cacophony of conversation and silverware on plates mingled with the dulcet tones of _April in Paris_ to drown out most of her thoughts, so Amallia stood in silence as she drank in the heady atmosphere of the room. Her sentry at the far side of the dining room was the perfect perch, surveying her domain like a hawk and watching with a keen eye for any disturbance in the flow of the evening. An empty glass, or worse, an empty plate required refilling as soon as she spotted it; she would dart to the kitchen and return with whatever their guests required.

The hours ticked by, her own wine glass near empty again. A conversation caught her attention, Karris and Branson talking between themselves in the living room. Her sister leaned on the arm of the chair in which Branson sat, and they shared smiles as well as words, soft gazes of endearment and maybe even longing.

Massive hands at her shoulders coaxed her from her reverie, rubbing deep into the stressed muscles, thumbs stroking stiff along her spine. “Can you relax for five minutes? You’re making me tense just looking at you.”

Gooseflesh broke out across her shoulders as Cullen withdrew her hair and whispered, his lips on her ear and breath hot on her neck. The warmth of him washed over her, arms wrapping around her waist, and Amallia leaned back against the hard expanse of his chest, their cheeks pressed together like cats nuzzling one another.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Sort of. I just want to make sure everyone is enjoying themselves.”

His stubble rasped along her cheek, surveying the room as she had. “I think everyone is having an excellent time. Dinner was amazing. Although,” he paused, spotting the kitchen. “Any late-night extra-curricular activities will need to be delayed until we clean up the kitchen.”

“I don’t even want to look at it,” she groaned.

Cullen opened his mouth to retort but a buzzing at his hip startled Amallia, and he stepped back to withdraw his phone from his pocket. She turned to him, curious as to who would be calling so late on Christmas day. The unknown number sat heavy in the pit of her stomach, a shiver of worry coursing up her spine as Cullen grimaced. With a swipe of his thumb, he brought the phone to his ear and answered.

“Rutherford.”

A dark scowl clouded his confusion as he turned from their guests and stalking down the hallway. Amallia followed him to her studio, shutting the door with a soft click and sealing them away in near silence, their friends and family a world away.

Too few words from Cullen worried her with each passing minute. He agreed with nothing more than grunts and hums, perfunctory and direct. The voice on the other end of the line never took a breath, talking at great length with haste. And though Amallia could not make out the words, the glower on Cullen’s face told her enough.

Not a minute later, Cullen bid the caller a good night and a less than chipper, “Happy Christmas”, then returned the phone to his pocket. Turning, he startled as his eyes landed on Amallia as though he had forgotten she was there. With his complete attention on his phone call, she imagined he had. Something in his stare, the amber eyes that pierced into her very soul, screamed for attention, for help. But when they slid from her to the bench before her keyboard, the frustration, the tension, and even his anxiety seemed to melt, dripping away like a fresh spring thaw.

“Do you remember ….”

A flutter of surprise caught her off-guard at his half-stated question. “Of course I do.”

He sat on the bench, rubbing the leather seat with a gentle hand. “So much has changed,” he muttered. “You up-ended my life, you know that?”

What was he getting at? Why the sudden change of topic? “I could say the same about you,” she started as she sat beside him like they had all those months ago. “And I don’t regret one second of it. Do you?”

He shook his head with a beaming grin. “Not at all.”

Though his smile was radiant as the sun, Amallia could tell something was still bothering him. “Why the nostalgia?” she asked. “What has you thinking like this?”

“That was the DA.”

Maker’s breath, the case had fallen through. That was it. All their hard work, everything was for naught. Without the interview, they were screwed, the case was done, and they would never know who had tried to kill Amodisia. Of all the things to befall them on Christmas, this—

“The interview is set for next month.”

Amallia was ready to apologize, to comfort him any way he may need with such a devastating blow. But when she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out, and she closed it with a click of her teeth. Frowning in confusion, she stared at him as though he were a particularly difficult puzzle.

“Mal?” he asked, the warmth of his hand enveloping her thigh. The green satin of her dress rustled against her skin as his thumb rasped over the fabric. “Are you okay?”

She shook her head, the words sinking in at last. “Maker, Cullen, you got it?”

He nodded with a sheepish smile. “Hawke needs me to come down to the precinct on Monday to get started,” he began, and although he seemed relieved, something yet bothered him. “They agreed to meet but not without their lawyer present. And given the evidence, this is her jurisdiction.”

“But,” she started, stuttering. “That’s good, right? That’s what you wanted. What we’ve wanted.”

“That’s the thing,” Cullen replied. “ _We’ve_ been working on this.”

“Not really,” she excused. “I … pointed out my observations a couple times. I was wrong, too …”

Cullen hummed a laugh deep in his chest. “But those observations brought us here. Without you, who knows how long this might have taken.”

“Without me, Sia might be dead.”

The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to think, but Cullen grimaced with an understanding nod. “That … is only our assumption at this point. We’re still not positive she was the target. It still could have been Alistair, the shooter a terrible marksman. There’s even the possibility that he or she missed on purpose, although I fail to see the likelihood of that, it would be quite a stretch given the evidence, or _lack_ of evidence—”

His thought ended with such abrupt silence, Amallia worried she had given him the wrong sign, that she’d somehow conveyed the idea he was talking too much.

“Forgive me,” he muttered. “I don’t mean to ramble at such length.”

No one managed to draw out her obnoxious laughter quite like Cullen did. A full belly-laugh filled he room, and Cullen’s accompanied hers, so full of joy, of relief. Finally, their endless tunnel of darkness brightened, a dim light in the distance, and though it was small and far away, it was there, truth undeniable.

“Thank you,” he sighed as he pulled her into his lap. She obliged, eager to be closer, to wrap her arms around him and feel his embrace consume her.

She wanted to reply, to thank him in return, but his amber gaze rendered her speechless. Time slowed, bending in the current of their excitement, of the relief in their private moment. Her eyes fell to his lips, parted with his shallow breath. Did she do that to him? Drive him mad with want, dizzy and breathless and aching?

At the small of her back, she felt a button pop apart, and when she didn’t protest, three more followed, continuing to her neck. There his hand dove into her hair, grasping tight to tilt her head and expose her throat. She gasped at his sudden – and _rough_ – attention, his hand at the hem of her dress diving beneath the fabric for her sex.

“Andraste’s tits, Cullen, what are – _oh, fuck_ – what are you doing?” she breathed, moaning and gasping has his nimble fingers wrenched at her underwear.

His molten gaze and wicked grin said more than words could, and she thanked the Maker her studio was soundproof. A moan rent from her chest as the sudden fullness of his fingers parted her lips, slickened by her arousal. He wasted no time in coaxing her climax forth, stroking her sex in perfect rhythm with her hips.

And then his lips found purchase at the crook of her neck, his hand tightening in her hair, restraining her. Wordless praise fell from her lips as his fingers plied her flesh, his tongue laving the sting of his teeth from her neck. Maker, how scandalous, how _exhilarating_ the risk of being caught in such a precarious position felt. Succumbing to their lust, Amallia tore from his embrace, his lips parting from her neck with a lewd pop, and his fingers withdrawing from her heat. Straddling him, she hesitated, waiting for his response.

His massive hands dove beneath her skirt to grasp her backside, nails biting into her flesh as he pulled her to him. With his lips at her ear he whispered, “Ride me, Mal, I want you to fuck me. _Please_.”

The want, the absolute need in his voice drew a growl from her throat she never thought possible. Void take her, but she wanted it, too, wanted to feel him inside her, the ache between her legs driving her mad with want. And so, she returned his rough treatment, tearing at his zipper and withdrawing his hardened cock from his pants, not bothering with his belt.

The swollen crown of his erection met her slickened flesh, coating him in her arousal as she rolled her hips. Their sighs and moans filled the room, swallowed by its protective shell, and Amallia could wait no longer. She had to have him then, take him, _fuck him,_ _make him mine again_.

With a rough thrust of her hips, she sheathed him to the hilt, and Cullen whimpered a moan so pathetic, Amallia hummed in approval. “Oh, Maker, you’re a mess,” she whispered in his ear as she withdrew to the tip. “Do I do that to you? Drive you so mad want, reducing you to a rutting animal?” she continued as she thrust into him again, harder.

“Oh, _fuck_ yes,” he moaned. “Ride me,” he begged. “I need you.”

As he had with her, Amallia wasted no time in starting. Ride him, indeed, she set a pace that would unravel them in a few short minutes. With her dress slipping from her shoulders, Cullen released her backside and tore the fabric from her flesh, revealing her bouncing breasts. No breath satisfied her lungs as she moaned to the heavens, rejoicing in the sensation of her slick cunt stroking his thick, full cock. Maker, but she loved how _full_ she felt with each of her thrusts, coupled with his greedy hands and lips and tongue on her breasts.

Her keening sighs reached a fever-pitch, erratic and stuttering as her climax neared. Sucking a taut nipple, Cullen released her other breast to stroke her sex, finding her swollen clit with a wet thumb and drawing tender circles around it. Faster she rode him, her head spinning with her impending release. Heavy twitches of his length flexed inside her with each of her thrusts, and she moaned in harmony with his whimpers at her breast.

In a burst of blinding light, she toppled over the edge of her arousal, a long, drawn moan filling the room. A wet _pop_ pulled her breast from Cullen’s sucking lips as he too grunted and groaned out his own climax with her. Hard pulses of his cock filled her with his seed, repeated spurts drawing out her climax.

With the aftershocks settled, there they sat a moment, heaving chests and weak limbs limp in each other’s embrace.

“Sorry,” he apologized again, sounding truly ashamed. “I’m … I should control myself better.”

“You know,” she started, “it really doesn’t bother me. If I didn’t want to do it, I’d have said so.”

An embarrassed pink colored his cheeks. “Still,” he continued. “It’s not something I’m used to. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to anyone.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Amallia stated as she righted her dress and buttoned it. When she could reach no further, Cullen finished, righting her collar.

“At least nobody will see _that_ ,” he said as he smoothed the fabric at the crook of her neck.

Amallia groaned, imagining the mark he had left on her skin. “Did you really give me a hickey?”

“I did,” he replied with a proud smile. “It’s quite marvelous,” he said as he peaked at it once more.

She scoffed as she slapped his hand away and adjusted her dress once more. “We should head back before anybody gets suspicious.”

Cullen snorted a chuckle through his nose at that. “Knowing that lot, they’ve been suspicious since we went missing.”


	74. An Invitation of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair discovers he is to be honored for his service to the state with another fancy dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here’s where things begin to get sticky. I am not a lawyer. I am not a police officer. I am not in any way educated beyond my own research as to how investigations, interviews, and case proceedings work. So I apologize now if anything is far-fetched or outright wrong. This could be said for the entire fanfic, but since I haven’t said anything before now, I figured I should put it out there.

“Sia,” he called. “Are you home, darling?”

The door echoed down the hall as he called out to her, but before she responded, Amodisia finished her thought, typing with furious speed at her keyboard.

“Sia?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice carrying. “In the study.”

Quick stomps followed, and within seconds, Alistair rounded the door brandishing a piece of paper in his massive hand. “Did you put them up to this?”

She squinted at him, suspicious not of his behavior, but of his question. “Whatever it is, nobody has put me up to anything as of late. Unless you count the Christmas baskets I bought for our staff …”

With an unusual roll of his eyes, he stomped to her desk and thrust the paper into her hands. “ _Ferelden_ wants to honor me for ten years of service to the state.”

That made less sense than a nug in a sweater. “And you think it was my idea?”

“If not you, then who?”

His question echoed in her head, repeated by her subconscious until it was nothing more than an incessant buzzing. “I don’t know and I’m not sure it matters, now,” she started. “But I’m worried we may already have an idea.”

Alistair grimaced, another uncommon look on his face, as he rounded the desk to stand beside her. “Speaking of which, I have good news. The DA in Redcliffe was convinced by Commander Nathaniel Howe to pursue interviewing the detectives with Cullen,” he explained.

“Nathaniel Howe _wants_ to go forward with this?” Amodisia asked, confused. “What about his father?”

Alistair shrugged, clearly as confused as she. “We’re not sure what will happen there. Depends on how forthcoming his father is.”

Amodisia pushed back from her desk to face her husband, fingers steepled before her lips. “And Cullen will interview them?”

He nodded, lips pursed to a thin line. “With Hawke. I know it’s strange, but the detectives aren’t being accused of anything. Cullen simply wants to talk to them about the state of the case and the _very_ public money moving into their retirement accounts.”

“Alistair, this is very grey legal territory,” Amodisia warned, fear creeping up her spine. “why not hand the case over to RPD now and let Howe run it.”

Leaning against her desk, he folded his arms across his chest. “There’s simply not enough evidence. Cullen hope that by presenting them with what they do have, they’ll give up their benefactor. And if they do, then the case goes official. Everything gets handed back to RPD and a forensic accountant will be brought in,” he explained with a wave of his hand.

Cold dread filled the pit of her stomach, feet chilled and fingers numb. “It won’t be long before he gets to the bottom of this,” she muttered. “Before he figures out who tried to kill me. Twice.”

“I suspect so,” Alistair began, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I _hope_ so. Maker’s breath, I just want this to be over with …”

His voice cracked as he quieted, fear radiating from him in currents. There was no hint of his typical sarcasm or smarm, no jest, no dark humor. All she saw in his golden eyes was abject terror. “Alistair, what’s wrong?”

Without warning, she was pulled from her chair and wrapped in his arms, drawn into a fierce hug. Her feet left the floor as he picked her up and held her tight, as if she would cease to exist were he to let go. “I’m terrified, Sia,” he began. “I’m afraid of losing you. This … this _job_ isn’t worth it. It’s not worth putting you in danger every day. I … can’t lose you.”

Snaking from his embrace, she wrapped her arms around him as he buried his face into the crook of her neck. Maker, but he was shaking, sobbing into her shoulder. He repeated himself, a mantra muttered to fend off his fears, his worst nightmare of a life without her

She smoothed his hair as she comforted him, whispering words of support until he settled, steady in her arms once more. He set her back on her feet, towering over her as he wiped at his tear-stained face.

“I’m quitting, Sia,” he muttered.

She reared back from him, unsure she had heard him. Holding his head between her hands to consider him, his words, his emotions with the scrutiny of a well-trained eye. Reddened eyes and nose, Alistair looked the same as he sounded, terrified and helpless. No smirk, no half grin, not even the quirk of an eyebrow betrayed him.

He was serious as a heart attack.

“Quitting?” she asked with a tentative squeak.

“I won’t be running at the end of this term,” he replied, “I’m done.”

Another decade might have passed in the infinitesimal second it took her to understand. “Alright,” she drawled, nothing but patience in her heart. “I have one question.”

“Sia, I’ve thought long and hard about this, I’m—”

“Can we build a house on Lake Calenhad?” she interjected with an unbidden smirk. When Alistair gaped in confusion, she pressed on. “I’ve always wanted to live on a lake. Have a big yard, a deck. A place where dogs can run around. And kids. A few of them, maybe. And not a big gigantic monstrosity of a house, something reasonable for a family of five or six …”

“Maker’s breath, Sia, how many kids do you _want_?!”

She giggled at his outburst, pleased that she had distracted him towards happier thoughts, at least for the moment. “Oh, I don’t know, three or four … maybe five …”

“ _Five_?!” he exclaimed, apoplectic with shock. “Sia, I know we want kids, but … _five_?!”

There was a time when Alistair had wanted _no_ children, but they had been young then, so very young, and their lives together so new. But with each passing year, the idea grew on him, and by the time he took office, he was of an entirely different mind.

His rambling confusion continued, returning her attention to the moment. Swift as a cat, she silenced him with a quick kiss, and he quieted with a muffled grunt.

“Better?” she asked.

He snorted a laugh, his sarcasm returned in full. “Ridiculous banquet where my wife may be in danger,” he stated raising one hand. “Five children,” he continued, raising the opposite hand. “Maker, give me the five kids.”

 Amodisia cackled with laughter, doubling over with a stitch in her side. “Don’t push it, Ali,” she started. “I want to enjoy these next few years while we’ve got them. When is this banquet, anyway? I missed the date …”

She regarded the piece of paper again, scanning the page as, out of the corner of her eye, Alistair’s brow raised to his hairline, seeming to await her response. At first, she thought she may have read the date wrong, but after a second and even a third pass, the letter did not change and Amodisia gaped in shock.

“Two weeks?”

“I’ll call Cullen,” Alistair started. “He and Mal should be there as guests, but I want REDIS’ people on our detail.”

Amodisia nodded, still processing the timing. Nobody would host a massive banquet with such little time to plan it. And without a name, an organizer behind the façade, she had nobody she could question. Nobody she could question legally, at least. Her suspicion spun out of control, driving her thoughts through every iteration of disaster possible until one clear moment rang out like a bell.

“Why do you want them there?” she started. “That just puts them in danger, too.”

It might have been best to keep that to herself. Alistair’s groan of frustration burned in her stomach. He pinched the bridge of his nose again as sat in her chair, the other hand digging his phone from his pocket. Dialing, he held the phone to his ear, thumb and middle finger migrating to his temples as waited, the tone ringing. When it picked up, Amodisia heard Amallia’s smooth alto speak.

“Hello, Ali.”

The tension eased from her husband’s shoulders and a knowing grin spread across his lips. “Mal, how are you this evening?” he asked, voice smooth as silk, like hers.

It was then that Amodisia noticed something about Alistair, something different, yet familiar. His infatuation with Cullen had been her well-kept secret, having known about it for years. But since the movie premiere, her suspicions had been confirmed. And while Alistair had been terrified to talk about it at first, with her reassurance, he admitted to his feelings for Cullen and promised he would speak with the man to clear the air.

But his response to Amallia's voice caught her unawares, unprepared. He wore the same smile she did whenever she spoke with the woman, giddy with excitement and near to melting with weak knees. Alistair read like an open book to her, understanding overwhelming her. If she was right, or close to the mark, she knew the four of them would need to have a frank discussion very soon.

“I’m well, love, to what do I owe the honor?” Amallia asked.

“We – er, Sia and I – would like to extend a-ah …” he stuttered, surveying the invitation again, “a _formal_ invitation to you and Cullen on behalf of the State of Ferelden. I am to be honored for ten years of service to the state.”

Silence filled the moments ticking by with haste and she strained to listen, to hear Amallia’s response. Leaning close, Alistair wrapped an arm around her waist and, with a gentle tug, pulled her down into his lap.

“That …” Amallia began, her voice thin and tinny over the phone. “That sounds a bit strange. States don’t typically honor _ten_ years of service. More like thirty or forty years …”

Alistair hummed his agreement as he nodded his head. “It is a bit strange, but I’m not sure I’d say I was surprised,” he began. “Anyway, can you let Cullen know we’d like REDIS’ people there as well? It’s in two weeks.”

Why he wanted REDIS staff present again was beyond her. The resulting media frenzy would turn the banquet into a circus act, cameras and journalists extra vigilant given the company’s short history with the governor’s office. And they would question Alistair’s decision, determined to discredit not only REDIS, but Alistair himself, setting him up as deranged and unscrupulous with mere months to go before the election next year.

And then it finally dawned on her. There would be no election next year, not with Alistair as the incumbent. There would be a fresh set of candidates, new to the office for which they would vote. That thought struck sure like a lightning bolt, rocking her to her very soul. They would be _done_ with the State, they would be _done_ with the politics, the red tape, the nonsense disguised as bureaucracy.

It would be over at long last and they could get on with their lives.

Amallia’s thin voice corralled her thoughts, drawing her attention into focus. “Alright, I’ll have Cullen call you tomorrow, he’s … indisposed.”

Alistair chuckled as he replied. “What have you done to him? Please tell me he’s recovering from a go between the sheets, because he’ll owe me fifty sovereigns.”

Amallia’s appalled gasp spread a rare grin across his face. “You _bet_ him we would have sex?!”

“He baited me into it!” he exclaimed. “Before telling me about your juvenile abstinence plan. What is wrong with you, Mal?”

Another irritated growl sounded over the phone. “First, it was _our_ idea, not just mine. Second, _no_ , he’s not indisposed because of that, as much as I wish it were the case. He’s indisposed because he’s drowning in your case, preparing questions for the RPD detectives.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “And you’ve not distracted him yet?”

“Not for lack of trying,” she grumbled. “And he’s no saint either, I had to be the strong one on occasion.”

“ _Had_ to?” Alistair mused. “Does that mean I owe _him_ fifty sovereigns?”

Amallia remained silent a second before responding. “Depends.”

“Before or after Christmas?” Alistair asked.

Soft whispers Amodisia couldn’t understand emanated from the phone, and then Amallia mumbled, “Fifteen.”

“Fifteen what? _Times?!_ ”

“In December. _Before_ Christmas,” she stated.

At that, Alistair and Amodisia cackled with laughter, Amallia protesting in vain. “You’re full of it, there’s no way …” Alistair began but faltered, a sudden clarity in his narrow pupils. “Is he really … like that?”

“Maybe you should ask him yourself,” Amallia admonished, though she laughed through her scolding. “While you think about that, I’ll forward the message.”

A furious shade of red colored Alistair’s cheeks as he coughed, clearing his throat. “Thanks, Mal,” Alistair replied. “See you in two weeks.”

“Bring your fifty sovereigns.”


	75. D.S. Al Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia and Cullen arrive at the dinner honoring Alistair Theirin for his service to Ferelden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for just how long it took me to get to posting this. I wanted to clean it up some. I’ll be posting a couple more chapters this week since this scene spans a few, is quite long, and I went at least two weeks without posting anything.

The oversized, jet black SUV lurched to a halt before the main doors of the hotel, sliding in a fresh January snowfall. Cullen threw a dark look at their driver, Raleigh offering an apology with a sheepish smile over his shoulder.

Rushing from his seat, Raleigh hopped from the truck and popped open the door behind him, lending a hand to Amallia. Cullen exited on his own, stepping onto the small patch of cleared pavement, and waited. Rounding the rear of the truck, Raleigh guided Amallia, careful steps on the treacherous ice. Once at his side, her hand clasped his in a grip like a vice and she huffed an irritated breath through her nose.

“Explain to me again why I wear these?” she asked as a heeled foot poked out from beneath her long coat.

Golden lamplight from the entrance illuminated her pouting lips, icy blue eyes, and purple waves pulled over one shoulder. For a moment, Cullen stared, still in awe of her, of the fact that they were together again, of the coincidences that brought them to that very moment outside of Denerim’s most prestigious hotel.

“Because social norms and gender stereotypes dictate women’s fashion,” he heard himself say.

Andraste’s cleansing flames paled in comparison to the sound of her obnoxious laughter, pure as freshly fallen snow. “You really know how to sweep me off my feet with all that gender equality talk,” she jested, and at that Cullen joined her laughter with his own.

As their mirth faded, winter wind swallowed them in a frigid gust, urging them to the entrance. Giant double-doors loomed overhead in the darkness, lamplight casting sharp shadows to the high archway. With his hand on the large handle, Cullen froze, gooseflesh covering his arms.

“Once more,” Amallia muttered with a squeeze of his hand, emboldening him.

He returned it, encouraged by her support. “Unto the breach,” he whispered.

Through the door they passed, leaving the frigid snow-scape of Denerim behind them and welcoming the warmth of the hotel lobby. At the top of the stairs, Cullen shrugged his coat and handed it to an attendant, then assisted Amallia from hers.

Glittering crystals shimmered in the chandelier’s light, her deep purple gown amassed with the clear sparkling gems. With a high neck and bare shoulders, Cullen couldn’t resist the urge to feel her warmth. Wrapping an arm behind her back, his fingers brushed the exposed skin between her shoulder blades, scalding his own flesh, and a shiver raced down her spine.

Hotel staff lead them to the ballroom down a winding series of hallways. Additions over the decades – centuries, even – had left the structure a dangerous maze of twisting corridors and maligned entries. Denerim’s oldest and most luxurious hotel, the Prancing Pony hosted the most regal of guests despite that quirk. And though strange, its name had not changed since opening its doors, an historical sight dating back to the middle ages and handed down over the centuries within the family. With its sterling reputation for superb hospitality – most notably their fine dining and massive wine cellar – people traveled from all over Thedas to visit.

“Maker’s breath, did they invite the _entire_ state?”

Rounding an awkward corner, they crossed the threshold into the ballroom, Cullen steeling his nerves for what he was about to witness. There, sprawled across the massive space, lay two hundred tables, each accommodating seven seats. And for every seat there was a body, though most stood in small groups, dressed in their finest clothes, sipping the finest of liquors and wines, playing their finest hand in their wretched game of politics.

Bile rose in the back of his throat and Cullen had half a mind to vomit. Every unknown variable sunk to the pit of his stomach, weighing like a lead brick.

Their guide bid them to follow, their table near the opposite side of the room. Beside him, Amallia peered across the space, delighted smile and sparkling eyes drinking in the room. The Prancing Pony and its staff pulled no punches, minced no words when it came to decorations. Though the holidays had passed, monstrous evergreens yet lined the hall, bedecked with baubles and bulbs that twinkled and shown, filling the room with winter spirit and lingering holiday cheer. Lights strung across the ceilings, connecting to several massive chandeliers, matched those in the trees, and at one end of the room, Cullen noted a jazz band setting up on a short riser.

And in the space between, thousands of people flitted from group to group, throngs clumped in dense pockets of bodies shifting and undulating with the flow of the room. Hosts carried their trays of glasses and tiny foods, targeting groups with a well-trained eye. No hand was without a full glass and no plate was without food for long.

At their table and not ten meters away Amodisia and Alistair stood amongst a group of politicians, and the sight of Alistair in his trim black tux sucked the air from Cullen’s chest, unable to breathe. Golden eyes met amber, and in that infinitesimal second, time stood still. Alistair’s lips parted as he stared, lingering on him, and the distinct sting of embarrassment warmed his cheeks.

“I think every politician in Ferelden and their entire families are here.”

Oxygen filled his lungs in a quick, full gasp, eyes peeling away from the other man as Amallia spoke. “This,” Cullen muttered, “is a fucking disaster waiting to happen. I don’t like it.”

Amallia grunted in agreement, but the warmth of her hand enveloped his, fingers lacing. “Please try to remember you’re not working tonight.”

Expert eyes scanned the room, noting each of his employees and marking their positions in their patrols. When she nudged him in the rib with a pointed elbow, he sighed with a dejected frown. “I’m sorry, pup. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” she replied as she snatched at the tented table card. “Table 2,” she commented, showing him and then returning it. “Should we mingle? Try to fit in?”

Cullen straightened his matching pocket square before nodding in wordless agreement, loathe as he was to admit the plan was a good one. Offering her his arm, she took it with a sultry smile and a wink, and together they waded into the social fray, enveloped by the mass, one of the fold.


	76. Missing In Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The banquet honoring Alistair commences.

“Mrs. Theirin!”

Amodisia shrieked as Ashara burst through the door of the bathroom. Her powder compact clattered into the sink and her clutch fell to the floor, its contents spilling across the tile.

“Ashara! Was that necessary?” she demanded.

Abashed, the pale woman blushed with embarrassment. “I apologize, ma’am, but you’ve _got_ to stop sneaking off. We’re supposed to follow you–”

“ _To_ _the bathroom?!_ ”

“Mr. Rutherford informed me that where you go, I go. And if that means the bathroom, then yes,” Ashara said with an exasperated huff as she knelt to the floor to help collect the contents of her purse.

Amodisia knelt with her, taking the clutch from Ashara and replacing the items the other woman handed them to her. “Fine,” she started. “But I warn you, I have a bladder the size of a thimble and I drink loads of water.”

When Ashara laughed, Amodisia couldn’t help but laugh with her. Once they collected her purse, they stood and made for the door, Ashara pushing it aside as she spoke. “Alright, ma’am, let’s get back to your husband before he has a heart attack.”

Amodisia giggled a half-hearted laugh, wishing for the end of the night to show itself as soon as possible.

* * *

 

“How many people are going to speak?”

Cullen ground his teeth, furious. Where Amallia seemed bored by the hour-long story-telling of Alistair’s time as governor, and before then a police officer, Cullen’s blood boiled. Five, _five_ people had taken to the podium, one after the other, telling story after story, and for a moment, Cullen wondered how much alcohol was behind the open bar.

No. He couldn’t. Not while Amodisia’s life was at risk. He had tried to reason with her, hoping for her understanding in how dangerous the circumstances had grown. Without questioning the detectives yet, Cullen lacked a prime suspect.

A man stalked behind the head table on the dais, passing by Alistair and Amodisia with haste. Cullen flinched, instinct and training responding to the paranoia his thoughts manifested. Maker, but he was jumping at Alistair’s state detail. Then again, that might be the right place to begin investigating. Maybe there was a traitor in the secret service, betraying their trust to get close, the perfect setup. A drugged drink or a cocktail injection in the hip as they escorted her served the ideal cover. No one would notice, not even Amodisia, until it was too late.

For all that he had promised not to work that evening, Cullen stared at Amodisia unblinking, determined to see her home safe. Nothing would happen to her; no harm would come to her without him knowing. She meant too much to the three of them, there was no chance in the Void he would let something happen to her on his watch.

A round of applause snapped him back to reality, and his eyes darted to the podium for a brief second before returning to Amodisia. While terrifying, at least it gave him an excuse to stare at a woman he had wondered after for many years; he never thought to encroach on Alistair and even approaching Amodisia had she been single when they had first met made his skin crawl. That did not mean he regarded his friends any less, the two kindest, most caring people he knew.

It wasn’t until Amodisia stood, her emerald green dress draped over one arm and the other in Alistair’s, that Cullen realized the speeches ended at long last. He stood as the jazz band roused with _C’est Ci Bon_ , drawing Amallia to her feet with him, and the attendants followed the Theirins’ lead. Staff soon had tables and chairs removed and stowed, revealing a sprawling dance floor.

Amallia walked beside him, navigating the throng as they made their way to the head table. There, at the top of the stairs, Alistair stood tall and proud, Amodisia beside him, the two looking as regal as the kings and queens of old.

“Well? What did you think?”

As if pulled straight from a dream, Alistair’s hopeful smile and glittering gold eyes so full of life were inches from his. The desire, the need to pull him in close, tight against his hip and _feel_ that magnificent man against him consumed his every impulse.

He reached out, hand splaying at the small of his back and drew him closer a scant inch. In his ear he whispered, a soft muttering that only he could hear. “I wasn’t paying attention. I kept staring at you and Sia. I’m terrified for you.”

Alistair turned the intimate gesture into a public and obvious hug, though to mask Cullen’s behavior or his own, Cullen was not sure, but he didn’t mind. Quite the contrary, the feel of Alistair’s massive arms wrapped behind his back hitched his breath in his chest, unable to think of a proper response except to return the hug in kind.

He sighed as they parted, resigned to his state. One day, he imagined seizing the opportunity to speak with Alistair, work up the courage to confess and clear the air. After all, Amallia thought Alistair returned the sentiment. Maybe she had been right, and he was just delaying the inevitable.

“Where’s Sia?”

 _Fuck_.


	77. The Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search commences.

Thank the Maker for empty bathrooms.

“Sorry, Ash,” Amodisia sighed as she shuffled through the bathroom door. “I couldn’t stay in that crowd another minute.”

Ashara shrugged at her post near the door. “It’s fine,” she excused with a glance to her watch.

“I suppose I should make the trip worth our while,” Amodisia suggested with a sardonic smile and a shrug as she entered a stall, a question recalled at the clicking of the latch.

“Do you know what room Alistair and I are staying in tonight?”

Silent seconds ticked, five, then ten, and then twenty without a response. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood stiff, gooseflesh crawling along her arms as she stood still as stone.

“Ash?”

Unsteady fingers reached for the lock of the door, but froze a hair shy as a muffled grunt echoed against the tile and the  _smack_  of skin on tile thumped to the floor.

Then darkness engulfed her.

Shoes clicked on the tile floor and a fresh wave of terror filled her stomach, fingers and toes numb with a cold shock of adrenaline. She dared not speak, lest she give away her position. No one else had been in the bathroom when they had arrived, and Ashara wore heavy combat boots.

The clicking continued, louder and louder with each nearing step. Her heart thrummed in her chest, hammering against her ribs as if to escape. Wave after wave of terror suffocated her, dizzy and light-headed. Each heavy clack of a shoe struck like a lightning bolt to her spine, entire body buzzing with anticipation.

Outside her stall the last click rang into silence.

* * *

 

“Ash was right beside her,” Delrin explained. “And I don’t see her at any of the patrol stops, so they must be together.”

Alistair wrung his fingers in his hands, eyes searching the room, darting from corner to corner, edge to edge. “But where? Why would they just leave?”

Guest after guest queued up to greet him, eager to shake his hand and oblivious to the concern so plain on his face. To either side, Delrin and Samson flanked him, as per Cullen’s instructions. To be safe. Or he had, at least, convinced himself of that. A lingering doubt itched between his shoulders; without the bullet and forensics to prove the shooter’s target, Alistair required protection, too.

The warmth of Amallia’s presence flush against his arm ensnared his focus.

“Maybe she’s in the loo?”

* * *

 

The deafening rush of blood pumping past her ears muted her senses, repeated thumps beating a furious rhythm and growing faster with each second.

Someone stood on the other side of the stall door and though she hoped wrong, Amodisia assumed Ashara lay unconscious near the door. Shaking fingers reached out to turn aside the lock, and a plan – a  _terrible_  plan – took shape. At the very least, she could take the intruder by surprise, and with a bit of luck, escape.

She gathered her dress to her knees and slipped her feet from her heels, preparing. With one foot in front of the other, her jaw clenched as she sucked in a deep breath, then kicked with all her might.

* * *

“There’s five bathrooms on this floor alone,” Alistair growled, face red as he gripped Cullen by the back of his arm. “How many people do you have, here? Can they sweep them all immediately?”

“We have plenty of staff, sir, I’ll get right on it,” Delrin stated before darting his way through the crowd. Samson remained behind, Cullen demanding neither of the Theirins go unprotected, but the scowl on his face disagreed.

“Alistair, my fingers are going numb,” Cullen grumbled through his toothy smile as another couple stepped up to greet their governor. His fingers sprang apart and he muttered a quick apology as he wiped his hands on his suit jacket.

Amallia glanced around his shoulder once more, a frown deepening the lines of her face. For a moment, she remained silent, waiting for Alistair to finish his conversation with the little old lady and her husband at whom Alistair smiled his dazzling smile. When they shook his hand and left, she leaned to him and touched his shoulder.

“I’m sure she’s fine.”

* * *

With all the strength her legs possessed, Amodisia kicked the stall door and screamed an almighty shout. The metal housing of the lock burst apart and the hinges snapped as the metal door flew from its perch and crashed into the person on the other side. Clattering to the floor, her assailant yelled with a guttural grunt as the door landed atop him.

Amodisia bolted, running fast as the wind. Afforded precious seconds by catching the intruder off-guard, she dared not waste a single one. But the door to the bathroom stretched from her in a relentless slide, her fingers brushing the handle before snapping out of reach.

An arm wrapped around her middle and hauled her away from the door, away from the safety of the space beyond, and threw her back into the dark depths of the bathroom. She had but a second to breathe before a sledgehammer of a fist caught her in the stomach and she doubled over with a cry of shock.

Instinct capitalized in that moment of pain, her mind blank and muscles commanding every move. A massive arm wrapped around her shoulders, stepping behind her for a headlock. Amodisia straightened with all her strength, standing as tall as her tiny frame allowed. And in a bid for control, her arms wrapped around her assailant in a tight hug, trapping his other arm against his body.

Adrenaline fueled her strength, her absolute necessity to survive, to escape. Muscle memory and years of training, of rigorous repetition dictated every step, every flex, and with practiced precision she executed the motions. With her left hand, she grasped his arm at the elbow, fingers digging into his muscles. Her other hand snatched at his wrist over her shoulder, spine stiff as steel until the last second. There, she collapsed, folding in half to snake beneath the man’s arm.

Over her head she whipped his arm, then wrenched it behind his back, her death grip maintained on the other. A resounding pop echoed through the bathroom as Amodisia heaved upward on the arm and the man bellowed a roar like a bear infuriated.

With his massive frame, her assailant shoved into her, pinning her to the far wall and crushing the wind from her chest. His wrist twisted from her fingers, long nails grasping, clawing to maintain their hold, but his strength overpowered hers, wrenching free.

Sound ceased and time expired as a blindingly bright shower of stars clouded her vision, unyielding tiles rushing up to meet her face as she crumpled to the floor. There, Amodisia learned true darkness, her conscious fleeing.


	78. Means to an End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the hospital.

“Where are they?”

Amallia frowned as she scanned the ballroom, not a glimpse of Delrin, Ashara, or Amodisia, nor any others in Cullen’s staff found. Not a flash of emerald green dress, nor a shock of pale pink hair, she saw no one she recognized.

“Delrin’s only been gone a few minutes,” Cullen admonished. “Like you said, there are five bathrooms on this floor alone. Might take them a while to find her. If she’s even in a bathroom.”

“Ali,” Amallia started, he teeth clicking shut as the man rounded on her with a severe glare. She dared not speak again, and so, she gestured a with a curt nod to the blonde woman striding up the stairs of the dais, her lavender gown fanning in her wake.

Alistair’s glare flipped to utter dread at the sight of Anora Mac Tier, in all her regal stature, as she stepped between himself and Cullen.

“Governor, I would like to have a word with you,” she muttered. “In private.”

“Can it wait until morning?” he pleaded. “I’m afraid I must remain here, given the security.”

The sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach eased as Amallia listened to their conversation. Anora remained an unknown variable, a piece of the puzzle that belonged nowhere; powerful, charismatic, and in her own right, a perfect fit for governor, the woman had not made a single move during Alistair’s tenure to challenge him. Sure, Alistair had faced other challengers, but never Anora. The evidence Cullen had gathered suggested much the opposite. She was his staunchest political ally.

“I suppose it can,” she stuttered. “For Andraste’s sake, please make sure you’re in early so we can talk. Something is…”

Her thought trailed to a whisper, and Amallia strained to listen, leaning across Cullen without drawing attention. In vain, she heard nothing, a few muttered words that, alone and without context, further confused her. She cursed the music and the people for their volume, the cacophony of celebration culminating in an irritating buzz.

Anora parted from Alistair with a shared kiss to the cheek, leaving Amallia further puzzled. As the minutes dragged, the nagging thoughts at the back of her mind gnawed on her nerves, eager to be on their way once Amodisia returned to them.

“Did you want to stay long?”

A warm grin met her pouting lip. His hand slipped to the small of her back with a smooth caress of her hip as he leaned to whisper in her ear. “As soon as we find Amodisia, we can go.”

Of course, he’d tease her in public – whisper in her ear, hold her close, and smile his charming smile – where retaliating was impossible, lest she want to be on the front page of the Denerim Daily, sucking face with one of the governor’s security personnel.

Not that everyone didn’t already know who she was.  _Photographer in the Crosshairs, Assassin’s Photographer, Portrait of a Killer,_ and all its ilk plagued the headlines the morning following the shooting. But with Amodisia missing, they did not need a salacious scandal blaming Cullen’s distraction for her disappearance.

 _I hate politics_.

* * *

 

“Ash?”

A deep baritone echoed in the caverns of her head and terrible pain lanced through her body with each thump of heavy boots on the tile. Consciousness returned but for a moment, the blinding flash of bright lights outlining the frame of a tall, dark figure looming over her body.

When the darkness returned, she fled her mortal flesh, and Amodisia was no longer.

* * *

 

Raleigh sprinted up the stairs, taking two at a time, his scowl foreboding. Cullen tensed as the other man neared, Amallia wincing with a soft, “hey,” muttered in protest as he squeezed her hand.

 “Sir, I need you to come with me,” Raleigh stated as he stopped a step below them.

“Report, Samson,” Cullen ordered in a grunt.

Raleigh blanched, color draining from his face as he looked between his boss and Alistair. When Samson continued to gape, what little remained of Cullen’s patience vaporized in a flash.

“Dammit, Samson, report!” he hissed.

The other man recoiled, startled to his senses. “Sir, I think it would be best to discuss this in private,” Raleigh attempted to explain. “We found Mrs. Theirin.”

Alistair’s wide golden eyes bored a hole into Raleigh’s ghastly face, searching, reading. After an excruciating moment, Alistair motioned for the small side door to the emergency hallway, and Cullen stepped ahead, controlling the crowd.

“Governor Theirin thanks you all for attending, but matters of the state require his attention,” he began, voice carrying over the line of attendees. “Please stay and enjoy the evening.”

Over his shoulder, Cullen ensured Raleigh followed at Alistair’s elbow, leading him down the stairs and through the throng of people with Amallia in tow. Attendees parted upon seeing their governor departing, shaking his hand as he passed, and he responded with a kind, easy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The urge to scream, to rail against his friend’s pain choked the breath in his throat.

Once through the door, Raleigh lead them down the hall where they were joined by Delrin, terror mirrored on his face. And if not for Amallia, Cullen doubted himself ever noticing the blood on Delrin’s hands.

“Are you bleeding?”

The man frowned at her, confused until he considered his hands, the palms smeared with a thin coat of red. “I… no, it’s not mine.”

“Then who?!” Alistair snarled as he grabbed Delrin by the lapels of his suit. “I swear to the Maker, Barris, if you don’t start talking  _right_  now—”

Cullen rushed in to separate the two, gaping at Alistair’s anger. “Stop it!” he demanded, “Delrin, report!”

“We need to get you out of here, sir,” he started. “It’s not safe.”

Alistair growled over Cullen’s arm. “What do you mean it’s not safe?!”

Crushed, Delrin’s scowling frown darkened as he spoke.

“Mr. Theirin, your wife has been attacked.”

* * *

 

“Attacked?”

His mouth moved and his voice echoed in the narrow hall, but the desire to speak never occurred to Alistair. The weight of the world slumped his shoulders, knees weak beneath the heavy burden, and he grasped the arm restraining him, an anchor in stormy seas.

“Hey,” Cullen startled, “stay with me, Ali. We need to get to the hospital.”

“The hospital?” he asked as his arm wrapped around his friend’s shoulder.

“Sia’s there,” Cullen continued as he guided them along the hallway.

One foot in front of the other, Alistair’s body moved of its own accord, robotic steps shuffling along with Cullen. Time slowed, stretching so thin until each second hammered between his ears with his heart, and the world blurred in a smear of grey.

Bitter cold wind stung his cheeks and Alistair sucked in a breath as he stepped over the threshold of a service door. A long black car sat in the alley behind the hotel, running, ready and waiting. The rear door nearest him opened and as though programmed, Alistair collapsed onto the seat.

The rid\e to the hospital never happened. If it did, Alistair failed to remember it. And yet the excruciating wait, the fifteen minutes of sitting in the car staring at his feet stretched for an eternity. Each minute, each second neared him to his wife, and yet he remained so far from her, he feared he might never see her again.

And then he shuffled through the wide sliding doors to the emergency room, a team of doctors rushing to meet him. Words poured from their mouths and he heard not a one, none of them what he wanted, what he  _needed_  to hear. When they continued at length, babbling about head injuries and bleeding and comas, time slammed into him, and Alistair glared a scowl so fierce, the muscles in his forehead stung. The team of doctors silenced, words caught in their throats and teeth clicking shut at the sight of his fury.

And then the fire in his chest died, dowsed by his desperate need for solace. “Please,” he begged. “Just take me to my wife.”

They considered one another, painful stares looking from one expert to the next before one woman spoke up and gestured down the hall.

“This way, Mr. Theirin.”

He looked over his shoulder, ready to speak but Cullen was too fast.

“We’ll wait here, take all the—”

“Come with me,” he interjected. “Please. Both of you. I … I can’t do this alone.”

Amallia rushed to his side without hesitation, her cool fingers slipping into the palm of his hand. “We’re here for you, Ali. Always.”

He managed a small, tight smile as Cullen flanked him, his strong fingers threading between his own. Thank the Maker for friends like these, for  _family_  unlike any he had ever known.

They followed the doctor down the hall, twists and turns of which he would need reminding later, lest he lose his way. When they stopped before the door, his feet failed him, glued to the ground and unwilling to move any further.

“Alistair,” Amallia urged. “We’re right here. You can do this.”

A deep breath gathered his resolve, a slow exhale dispelling his fears. The cool metal of the handle burned against his palm, and under his weight, the door opened, granting them passage to the room beyond.

Shuffling to a halt, Alistair froze at the foot of the bed, lips parted in a silent gasp and eyes brimming with tears. He heard nothing, not the beep of the heart monitor nor the lingering dissonance of the emergency room beyond the door.

Amodisia lay in the bed, eyes closed and still as stone, unmoving. There, he collapsed to his knees, his pain a great and terrible ache in his chest that threatened to crush his heart.

And in his grief, Alistair wept.


	79. Come Back Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia and Cullen visit Amodisia in the hospital, keeping Alistair company until…

Amallia hefted the backpack on her shoulder, adjusting the slipping strap as they walked through the halls of the hospital. Hand over her mouth, she yawned, too little sleep the night before darkening the circles beneath her eyes and shuffling her feet. Together, they laid awake most of the evening, talking of their fears, of their worries and nightmares. And with the rising sun, they rose, sleep illusive and dread filling their hearts heavy as lead.

From her coffee, Amallia sipped a sweet, chocolate concoction Cullen had ordered for her when she’d refused to get out of the car. Red splotches lingered on her cheeks and nose, a reminder of the latest bout of tears on their way to the hospital.

Beside her, Cullen strode a brooding cloud of darkness. Her free hand reached out to him, soothing his shoulder. “You think this is your fault, don’t you?”

He grunted a non-committal sound of agreement. “Maybe. If I’d caught the bastard behind all of this sooner…”

Around a corner they turned, silent as Amallia picked her words with great care. “I understand why you feel that way, but you can’t slip into despair now. Not when you’re so close. It’s not your fault.”

Through the hospital hall they continued, nearing Amodisia’s room as Cullen hefted his own backpack on his shoulder. “I know. I’m trying to not let it get to me, but it is.”

“It’s okay,” she started, “but don’t forget you’re not alone.” Her hand slipped into his, garnering a small smile, and that simple gesture eased the lump in her throat eased, tension releasing its hold of her chest.

At Amodisia’s door, Ashara and Delrin stood guard, their shift starting an hour earlier that morning. With a nod, Amallia and Cullen greeted them, trading quick pleasantries, then turned for the room. Cullen knocked with a half-hearted flick of his wrist, and a groggy voice responded, admitting them. Amallia pushed the door aside and slipped through, Cullen swift on her heels.

Beside Amodisia’s bed, Alistair sat slumped atop the bed as he held one of her petite hands in both of his massive mitts. His thumbs worried at her skin, rubbing back and forth as if to will her awake. His disheveled hair and wrinkled tux bore the signs of sleeping in his chair, and his own dark circles beneath bleary eyes mirrored theirs.

Cullen stood beside him, a hand cupping the back of his head to run through his hair. “Brought you a change of clothes,” he said as he set the backpack beside their friend’s feet. “Thought you might want some clean underwear.”

Alistair considered the bag, then turned into Cullen’s hand, and for once, Cullen didn’t flinch away. Since November, Amallia wondered when Cullen to come to terms with his feelings for the man, and though they exchanged not a word on the topic, an unspoken understanding radiated from their easy smiles.

“You’re amazing, you know that, right? Both of you,” he stated as he stood and hefted the bag on the bed. The zippers rippled along their path as Alistair tore open the bag, then withdrew the clothes Cullen had packed. When he held up a Honnleath Community t-shirt, he glared at his friend with a sardonic frown.

“Really, Cullen?”

“What?” He shrugged with a crinkle of his nose. “I didn’t have much to spare, we’re only in town for the weekend. You’re stuck with my gym clothes until you can send someone for your own.”

Alistair gave the shirt another considering look before sniffing it. “Well, if it’s clean…” he jested as he set it on the bed, then stripped from his rumpled suit.

Amallia turned her attention to Amodisia, laying still as stone in her bed, the rise and fall of her chest the only sign of life. A large square patch askew across her forehead replaced the bandages from the night before, covering her forehead and left brow. And spread across her cheek and nose lay a garish purple bruise, relenting to a greenish-yellow on her lip and cheek. As she stared, Amallia’s teeth ground, fingers clenching into fists as her nails dug into the palms of her hands.

_Wake up_. _Please, Sia. We need you_.

“The two of you should head back to your room, get some rest.”

Amallia turned to find Alistair pulling the t-shirt over his head and Cullen staring, a pink blush coloring his cheeks. “We’re fine, Alistair,” he started, averting his gaze. “Really, there’s nothing else for us to do.”

Alistair’s head popped through the neck of the shirt, hair rumpled and eyes sunken. “Do me a favor then?” he asked, looking between the two of them.

“Anything,” Amallia quipped.

A hint of his charming smile turned the corners of his lips, but it spread no further, his eyes flat and faded as he looked between them. “Denerim PD questioned people all night. Nobody saw a damn thing. Not a single person saw Sia and Ash go into the bathroom, nor did anyone see someone follow them. Delrin said the lights in the bathroom were off when he found them,” he paused with a hard blink, tears rolling over his cheeks. “There has to be surveillance videos. Something. Anything. Find the piece of shit who did this to my wife.”

 “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise,” Cullen replied. “I’ll head over to the hotel, now.”

“I’ll stay,” Amallia chimed. “Keep you company. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

That drew his familiar warmth, Alistair’s smiling returning in full and golden eyes glowing despite his tears. “Thank you,” he muttered. “I owe the both of you more than I care to admit.”

With a casual wave of his hand, Cullen scoffed. “You owe us nothing.”

Alistair hesitated, mouth working for words that eluded him. In that moment’s chance, Cullen embraced him, a tight hug pinning him to his chest. There, the damn broke. Alistair sobbed into his shoulder, unrelenting gasps for breath and pitiful moans muted as he gripped Cullen’s shirt in angry fists. Tears welled in her own eyes, drowning her fury in a tidal wave of sorrow for their friend.

Parted, Cullen clapped the other man on the shoulder as he hoisted his backpack from the bed. Nods of reassurance traded between them before he rounded the foot of the bed to stand beside her. With a caress at the nape of her neck and a kiss atop her head, he spoke. “I’ll call you the second I find anything. Meet you back at the hotel?”

Amallia nodded, leaning into his embrace. “Please, don’t work too late,” she stated.

He towered over her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders for another, more intimate kiss beneath her ear. “Me, work late?”

Away she shoved him, laughing despite her despair, With that he headed for the door, quick strides seeing him over the threshold and around the corner.

Alistair withdrew into himself, the room silent but for the heart monitor punctuating each second that passed. And as the minutes ticked by, Amallia’s thoughts drifted, distracted and dangerous.

What if they never found the person responsible for everything? What if they went on, never knowing? Amodisia sleeping with a sound mind, safe and solid in her own home, required years of therapy after last night.

And what of Alistair? What of their governor, their leader, the man responsible for bringing Ferelden into a golden age of growth and prosperity and togetherness? A thrice-attempted killer going free, a heinous miscarriage of justice had chosen the worst advisory in Alistair Theirin.

No, Alistair—let alone Amodisia–demanded justice, demanded someone stood charged and convicted for their crimes. But for that, Cullen required evidence. They had little–the Warden Capitals document, Alistair’s state financials, and now the chance to interview the two detectives that had worked the case. And yet, Amallia doubted any attorney crazy enough to prosecute on such circumstantial evidence existed.

Warmth engulfed her from behind, Alistair’s massive arms wrapping around her waist. The bed sagged with the weight of him and a heavy sigh warmed her neck.

“I’m scared, Mal,” he muttered, chin resting on her shoulders. “What… what if sh—she never…”

Amallia turned to him, grasping one of his massive hands in both of hers. “You can’t think that way,” she chided. “It’ll tear you apart. Have hope. Of all the people in Thedas, you are always one so full of hope, I’m surprised there’s enough for the rest of us.”

He grunted with a sardonic laugh. “You know why I’m like that?”

Amallia nodded. “She is a rare woman.”

“Rare?” Alistair asked. “No, she’s impossible. Irreplaceable. Indomitable. There is not another person in the entire world like Sia,” he declared. “She is my world. She is _my_ world and everything in it. Without her…”

His face fell, eyes cast to the floor and head hanging between his shoulders. Amallia wrapped an arm around his back, hugging him close. “I know, Ali. I love her, too. She is one of the very few genuine, honest, and caring people I have been so lucky to meet,” she paused with a knot in her throat. “Do you remember when you were on the RPD? What was their motto?”

Alistair huffed a laugh. “Victory. Vigilance. Sacrifice,” he stated. “In that order,” he added. “There used to be more to it. Ages ago. There are legends, fairytales mostly. The original organization was a group of elite fighters, warriors and rogues and mages, committed to fighting the Blight. Can you believe that?” he paused with a chuckle. “The _Blight_? Maker, what a silly story.”

“It’s _not_ a _story_.”

Amallia screamed and Alistair shouted, both jumping from the bed and wheeling around to find Amodisia wide awake with a stern glare on her face.

“It’s true,” she demanded with a hand to her forehead, gentle fingers testing the bandage. “The Blight returned every couple hundred years. And the Fifth Blight was particularly memorable, because the bastard king and the Hero of Ferelden defeated the Archdemon and survived,” she continued. “They lived out their days together searching for a cure of the taint. The Hero found it but she was too late. The bastard king had died a year too soon. She sent the cure to the Magi, but did not wish to be cured. She died a few weeks later, ready to join her love in the Fade.”

Apoplectic shock gaped their mouths as they stared at Amodisia as if she had two heads. Between them she looked, emerald eyes flicking from one face to the other.

“What?” she groaned. “What happened, why am I in the hospital?”

Amallia slapped the emergency button on the remote beside the bed. “We better have the doctor look at you.”

Within seconds, a young man entered the room, tall and dark and bright-eyed. “Ms. Theirin! Wonderful of you to join us,” he jested. “How are you feeling?” He noted values on the monitor as he spoke, entries noted on the tablet he cradled in one arm.

“Like I was trampled by a herd of druffalo,” she sighed.

Amallia missed the rest of the conversation, slipping into the hall with her phone. With a quick punch of buttons, she rang Cullen, eager to tell him the news.

“Rutherford.”

“She’s awake.”

Silence, then static followed by a thump, and his gruff voice cursed. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

A grating itch crawled between her shoulders at his tone. “What’s wrong?”

Cullen grunted another sigh of frustration before he spoke.

“ _Wrong_ doesn’t come within a million miles of describing how fucked up this case is.”


	80. Square One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen, Amallia, Alistair, and Amodisia talk about the case. And later, Alistair has a visitor in his office.

“Wait.” Alistair flung his hand in the air. “You’re telling me we’ve got fuck-all. Again.”

“Give the man a prize.”

Amallia glared at him, but, despite her warning, Cullen’s sour mood prevailed. Their weekend in Denerim had turned into a week’s stay, extended indefinitely. Not that Amallia wanted to leave, but Cullen had refused to return to Redcliffe before Amodisia’s doctors released her from the hospital. Until then, they stayed at the Prancing Pony, stuck in Denerim.

For a moment, Alistair’s sharpened glare focused on him, the confused knot of his brow etching lines deep into his forehead. “Explain.”

At the foot of the bed, Cullen paced, choosing his words with great care as three sets of eyes followed him. Amallia sat beside Amodisia, fingers laced in one another’s hands, and on the opposite edge of the bed sat Alistair, shoulders slumped over his wife’s other hand, worrying her fingers with his thumbs.

“The hotel had nothing,” Cullen began with a shake of his head. “The closed-circuit television showed Amodisia and Ashara going into the bathroom and then, forty-five minutes later, Delrin entering and exiting within seconds.”

Amodisia gasped before shouting, “But someone else obviously came in!”

“No need to convince us, sweetheart, we believe you.” Alistair placed a kiss to the back of her hand, then added several more to each of her fingers, and a flash of comfort brightened her smile before Cullen continued.

“Now, I can’t prove anything. And Denerim PD doesn’t want to subpoena the video tape. But, I suspect someone faked the feed, giving the assailant plenty of time to sneak in.”

“Maker, why go to so much trouble?” Amallia breathed. “And to kill Sia? Why?”

Cullen shrugged. “She’s a highly visible and influential politician. But it does seem like a short-sighted goal; why not just take out Alistair?”

“That makes even less sense, my job dreadful,” Alistair grunted, earning their glares, and he cowered with a sheepish frown. “I mean, it’s a really difficult job and nobody understands that until they’ve done it. The hours are abysmal. Right, Sia?”

“Yes. Dreadful.” She rolled her eyes before returning her attention to Cullen. “Anything else?”

Several paces traversed back and forth at the foot of the bed, silence settling in with their tension. “Not here.”

Alistair grunted as he said, “Then what’s left? Is this case even worth pursuing?”

“Given recent events, the district attorney still thinks we’re on to something,” Cullen clarified. “We’ve got two weeks before we interview the detectives from the shooting investigation. So, I am prepping her for that.”

He paused, wracking his brain for any other updates, recalling the worst news yet. What purpose did it serve to tell them? And yet, avoiding it served no purpose, either, but to artificially maintaining their hopes. “Unfortunately, your food tests from the movie premier came back negative for poisons.”

Crestfallen but a second, Amodisia squeaked as squirmed in her confining bed. “What about the other woman’s food?”

“Discarded. Report says anaphylactic shock, an allergic reaction, but no other testing was performed.” His own derisive roll of his eyes mirrored hers, and Amodisia slumped back to her pillows, head lolling to one shoulder.

The same tense silence settled over each of them, Cullen dwelling on another piece of news of which he had yet to inform them. The last piece. The straw.

“Do you have anything, Cullen?”

He cringed, wincing in the wake of Alistair’s please, his desperate need for an answer. Nerves steeled, Cullen sucked in a breath and spoke. “I do not. Your test results came back negative. I’m so sorry, Sia.”

“What?” Amodisia’s puzzled look darted between the two of them. “Test results?”

Alistair turned to her with an apologetic frown. “Ashara told me that the detective who accompanied the two of you to the hospital collected skin from your finger nails.”

“You scratched the absolute piss out of whoever attacked you,” Cullen said. “It’s amazing none of their blood was found at the crime scene.”

Amodisia’s furrowed brow softened, eyes unfocused and staring at the far corner. “I remember… he was huge. It was a man, I’m positive of that.” Her attention returned, eyes snapping to his. “But I already told the detective that. It was pitch black in the loo so I never saw his face or hair. It could have been Alistair for all I know.”

Alistair’s snort of dismissal startled him. “You’d be dead if I’d done it.”

“Try me,” Amodisia shot back. “You do remember the time I carried your ass over my shoulder a shootout, right?”

Alistair opened his mouth to lob another challenge, but Cullen interjected before they derailed the conversation any further. “Despite your ability to kill one another, I’d appreciate it if you’d wait a few more weeks,” he began. “If this somehow goes to trial, I’ll need both of you alive.”

Amodisia scrunched her nose beneath Alistair’s kiss on her cheek. “I think we can manage that,” she started as she shoved her husband. “Now, please tell me you have _some_ good news to share with us.”

“No,” Cullen sighed. “I told you, I’ve got nothing. We’re right back to where we were in December.”

Alistair flopped onto the bed beside his wife with an exasperated huff. “What do we do now?”

With a grimace, Cullen leaned over the foot of the bed, hands planted on the frame and shoulders squared.

“We get back to work.”

* * *

Through the cavernous marble hallways of Denerim City Hall Alistair strode, flanked by servicemen and women in their plain, dark suits and plain, blank faces. The press conference that morning had spiraled into an unmitigated disaster, too many questions left unanswered. The papers ran their speculative stories, ranging from the plausible to the outrageous; a mass murderer free in Redcliffe, someone had tried scaring Alistair out of office, someone wanted Amodisia dead for whatever reason, and even far-off fringes of society believed the government behind it, a coupe against the power couple that had burned down Fereldan’s oligarchy and rebuilt a democracy from the ashes.

They had many enemies, true. But enemies bold enough–and dumb enough–to try killing someone _three_ times?

The door to his office towered over him before long, the walk from the press conference to this far wing of the building passing in the blink of an eye. His detail took their posts at the ends of the hallway and to either side of the door as he entered, pulling the door closed behind him.

He stood there, mind blank and body numb, eyes staring at the large desk in the center of the room. Maker, how had it come to this? How had it come to them chasing their tails, racing not even to keep up, but to continue to fall behind?

A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts, and his cheeks warmed at the interruption. Did any of them ever listen to orders? Were they unsure of what qualified as an emergency? Maybe they required a definition, or an explicit example. As he wheeled on the door, Alistair grabbed the handle and wrenched it back to come face to face with Loghain.

 _Maferath’s balls_.

Dark circles sunk heavy beneath his eyes and his jet-black hair stuck out at the back, unkempt. In one hand, he grasped a folder and in the other he clutched a large cup of store-bought coffee, taking a sip as he entered.

Alistair stepped back lest the man trample him. “Sir,” he addressed, deferential as usual. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Sit, Alistair,” Loghain suggested as he motioned towards his desk. “Just checking in.”

Alistair shut the door with a quick push, then returned to his desk across from Loghain, already stead in a plush leather chair. “Checking in on what?” he asked.

A chill froze him to the bone at the sight of Loghain’s questioning stare. Something about Loghain’s disheveled appearance tripped a visceral response in Alistair, positive the man had not slept in twenty-four hours, a greater warning he let anyone see him in such a state. The fine hairs on the back of his arms and his neck stood on end and a rush of dread filled his stomach as he watched every fidget and twitch of Loghain’s existence.

“Why, Amodisia, of course?”

Though the recent attack on is wife’s life had shaken him, her prognosis of a full recovery had dulled that shock. And so, for reasons unknown even to himself, the memory of that fateful day last spring recalled with terrifying clarity. The explosion of a high-caliber rifle echoed in his mind, reverberating off the surrounding buildings. The screams that followed. Amallia’s bright red blood splattered across his shirt. Cullen shouting for help, Ashara leaping into action. The ambulance. Amodisia’s numb silence in the car all the way to the hospital.

And yet, reliving that memory paled in comparison to Loghain’s concern for Amodisia’s wellbeing.

“She’s fine.” Alistair picked up a pen. “Thank you for asking,” he stated with a small smile. “Now, is there something I can do for you?”

Loghain shook his head as he frowned. “She’s going to make a full recovery?”

If Alistair allowed his imagination to run wild, he suspected the man sitting before him an imposter, not Loghain, but a doppelganger or a man in a mask attempting the _worst_ impersonation of Loghain he’d ever seen. “They’re keeping her in the hospital to continue monitoring, but she will make a full recovery, yes.”

A faint hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Loghain’s mouth, leaving his eyes untouched. “Excellent. Glad to hear it. I was worried,” he rambled. “Head wounds are… terrifying.”

“They are…” Alistair began, his gut twisting as a fresh wave of gooseflesh broke out across his arms. A chill filled the pit of his stomach, numbing his feet with a shiver, and clumsy fingers twirled his pen, dropping it to the desk. His reaching hand flicked it away as he tried to grab it, sending it skittering across the desk.

The pen bounced off Loghain's hand wrapped around his coffee cup and he recoiled as if bitten by a snake. Alistair froze, waiting for the other man to relax before retrieving the pen. When Loghain didn’t move, Alistair stood and reached with a slow hand, careful not to startle the other man any further.

As he leaned forward and looked at the pen, something else caught his eye. Beneath the cuff of his suit shirt hid a bandage, wrapped around Loghain’s left wrist.

He hesitated, staring for a fraction of a second too long. Loghain shrugged in his suit jacket, adjusting the sleeve to cover his wrist, but said nothing. His cold, dark glare screamed louder than anything he might have said as he rose from his chair and drained the last of his coffee.

“Is there—”

“No,” Loghain interjected as he turned for the door. “No, that will be all. I hope your year improves, Mr. Theirin,” he added over his shoulder. The door swung open as he approached, a member of Alistair's detail leaning in to give Loghain the space to pass.

He regarded the waifish Cole as if to size him up, turning back once more to consider Alistair, twice the boy’s size. With a shrug, Loghain turned back for the door, dropping his empty coffee cup in the bin on his way.

Cole lingered by the door, a careful eye watching for the opportunity to speak. When he did, he muttered a question Alistair struggled to hear.

“Should I call for a doctor, Mr. Theirin? You look ill…”

He waved him off with a lazy hand and a shake of his head, but as the door closed, that sinking desperation returned in a wave of nausea. Alistair slumped over his desk, gasping for breath and gripping its edge, praying at the tangible mass to stop the inexorable spinning of the room.


	81. Implicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Anaphorah meet with the Redcliffe detectives responsible for investigating the shooting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is where shit gets funky. I am not a cop, a detective, a lawyer, or even a student of criminal justice. I’ve done all the research I can. I wanted to talk to a lawyer or a police officer, but anyone I reached out to flaked on responding. So, this investigation is about to get really weird (read: not at all accurate).

Pale winter sunlight slanted across the interview room of the Redcliffe police station, dust motes drifting along their lazy paths. And across from him sat two men, one sullen and avoiding eye contact, the other dark and glaring daggers sharp enough to cut steel. Beside them sat an older man, beady eyes and hooked nose the perfect imitation of a vulture. Cullen stood behind two chairs, one empty, the other containing the last person he thought he’d ever see from Kirkwall again.

“Detectives,” Anaphorah Hawke chimed with a toothy grin. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to speak with us.”

Cullen resisted the urge to laugh, Anaphorah’s statement so far from the truth. The dark-haired man scoffed with a flippant roll of his eyes, arms crossing his chest. The other, fair with red hair, opened his mouth to speak but the first detective jabbed him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. The fair man jumped with a soft squawk of indignation, then fell silent with a chuff.

“Something you’d like to say?” Hawke asked, a pouting frown accompanying her simpering tone. “Anything?”

The detectives remained silent, glaring from Anaphorah to himself, then back to the woman seated at the table.  She held her tongue, allowing the silence to linger, the men squirm in their seats under here severe green stare. When they said no more, Cullen leaned across the table.

“You are?” He held out his hand for the darker man to shake, but the detective sat still as stone.

“Daveth Vreeland.”

“Jory Rook,” the fairer man offered without hesitation, his cold, clammy hand clasping Cullen’s. His grip shook, a subtle quiver in his fingers as he released him. He turned to the older man, his dark eyes focused not on him, but the folder in his lap.

When he said nothing, Anaphorah cleared her throat with an expectant command. The older man considered her as if seeing her for the first time, then Cullen, and then his clients.

“Rendon Howe, lawyer.”

Another piece of this insane puzzle fell into place. Nathaniel’s considerable concerns for the wellbeing of his father confused him no longer. That lack of clarity burst like a bubble, replaced by a brewing worry in his stomach; if they connected Rendon to any part of the plot to kill the Governor or his wife, he stood no chance of avoiding prison. No wonder Nathaniel had kept his father’s involvement to himself.

The silence stretched as Cullen’s thoughts stumbled over one another, his entire line of questioning forgotten. One remained at the forefront of his mind, burning a hole through his concentration.

“To clarify why we’re here,” Anaphorah began with her charming smile, “we only have some questions to ask. You’re not under investigation. You’re not under arrest. You may leave at any time. Understood?”

Both detectives deferred to their lawyer, whose attention had returned to the papers in his lap. He waved them on with a flippant flick of his hand and a bewildered shake of his head.

“Rutherford, I know you have a few burning questions to start.”

Cullen swallowed hard, a painful lump in his throat clouding his thoughts. With a cough, he took a seat and spoke.

“Who assigned you to investigate the shooting last spring?”

The two detectives considered one another as they eased in their seats, tension draining from their shoulders and easy smiles crooking their mouths. “We were assigned by our senior investigator,” Jory started, “but the order came down from the Chief.”

The wood of the table creaked beneath his arms as Cullen leaned atop it. “And is that typically how investigators are assigned in your precinct? Your chief assigns all of them?”

“No,” Daveth stated. “We usually pick up cases as they come in. But the Chief wanted us on this one,” he added with a firm nod. “Howe was going to take it, but Duncan stepped in.”

How far dare he push them? They weren’t under arrest, and his private investigator’s license limited his tactics. “Why did he do that?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Rendon sighed, attention never leaving his papers. “Mr. Rutherford, Serah Hawke, if you’re not going to arrest my clients, I do not understand the point of this.”

“Oh?” Hawke began as she slammed a large, three-ring binder on the table between them. With a nimble flick if her wrist, the cover opened, cracking like a whip. “We could arrest them,” she stated as she brandished a set of papers at him. “But we’re not.”

Rendon took it, and from his forehead, small reading glasses fell to the tip of his long nose. He sniffed, a derisive sound of dismissal.

The dossier on Alleira Dayne floated across the table when Rendon tossed it aside. “I don’t know her.”

Anaphorah brandished another dossier, a second eye witness testimony of that fateful day in Redcliffe square as she spoke. “You should. Your detectives interviewed her. And this woman,” she stated as her fingernail clicked on the table, pointing to the paper. “Arya. And Johan. And Athena. And Alusha. William. Charles.” She spat each of their names as she flung their files at him. “You should know all of them!”

The binder flew across the table as Anaphorah shoved it into Rendon’s lap, her chair kicking over to the floor in a rattling clatter. The lawyer and his clients recoiled, shocked by the district attorney’s outburst. “You would know about the _two-hundred fifty-seven_ people they supposedly interviewed if you had bothered to ask!”

For the first time since Cullen had entered the interview room, Rendon met Anaphorah’s glare with a scowl of his own. “Are you accusing my clients of something or not?”

“Riddle me this, Rendon,” she started, “how do _two_ detectives interview over two-hundred fifty-seven people in a matter of weeks, but forget to interview the intended target, the victim, and the people that saved her?” She shuffled through the papers littering the table until she found a picture of Alistair and Amodisia behind a podium and Amallia and himself near the right frame. The image slapped to the table with the flat of Anaphorah’s palm an inch in front if Rendon.

Her glare turned on the detectives. “Why didn’t you question them?”

Jory cowered, quivering in his seat. Instead of meeting her stare, he looked to Cullen.

“Don’t look at me for help,” Cullen started. “I want an answer, too. If you thought this was going to be good cop/bad cop, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” He leaned back in his seat, arms folding across his chest.

Small, dark eyes searched his own, pupils blown wide, lip twitching and brow knitting at the bridge of his nose. Something begged to escape his mind, bottled there for months; wringing hands and a sweaty hairline indicated nothing else.

“We didn’t need to question them,” Daveth snipped. “After all, we’d questioned so many people and got the same story, why bother with more?”

Too late, Jory failed to mask his subtle frown, a twitch at the corners of his lips. How much of what Daveth had said so far resembled the truth? Not that Cullen anticipated the man telling the truth to begin with, but the best lies hid obfuscated by partial truths.

“Jory,” he started. “Who was the target of the shooting?” When the man looked to his lawyer, Cullen slapped the table and Jory yelped, head whipping back to face him. “Who, Jory?!”

“Th-the Governor… Al-Alistair Theirin!” he stammered. “That’s what we… what our investigation determined.”

Anaphorah leaned over the table with a snarl. “Prove. It.”

Cullen glared down at Jory, cowering further into his seat. Daveth maintained his smug smile and reclined in his chair, and then Rendon spoke as he tossed the binder to the table with a thump.

“Read the report, Serah Hawke. It’s all there,” he drawled through his nose. “In fact,” he began again, digging in his brief case and withdrawing a thick folder. “I have a copy.”

“I’ve read it already,” she snapped. “Rutherford, explain to this dullard why the report is incorrect. I might strangle him if I do.”

If Rendon How did not file a complaint to the district judge for that remark, Cullen had overestimated him. Not that Anaphorah risked anything by it, but her stack of complaints as a ruthless district attorney stood six inches thick. She worked with the tenacity of a wolverine, and he backed her up without faltering.

“The report says the forensics prove Alistair Theirin was the target,” he stated. “Except, out of all the evidence I was provided, there was no forensics report.” The pot simmered now, Jory and Daveth’s eyes shifting between one another and Daveth’s smile fading. Rendon, however, remained unperturbed. Time to bury the dagger.

“None of that actually matters,” he sighed as he gestured to Anaphorah, holding a thin folder in her hands. “That _lack_ of evidence only made Serah Hawke’s job easier,” he continued as she opened the folder and laid it on the table for the detectives. Cullen sat beside her, studying them, watching their every move with a well-trained eye.

“Your retirements are a long way off, is it not, gentlemen?” Anaphorah asked, honeyed tongue so sweet even Cullen grimaced. “They’re impressive _packages_ ,” she elaborated with a sultry smirk. “Very diverse investments. And growing quite well over the last ten years. In fact, you’ve both _doubled_ your finances in the last year alone. You _must_ introduce me to your advisors, I’m impressed.”

Rendon moved not an inch, his blank stare landing between Anaphorah and Cullen. His pulse maintained, his breathing remained steady, his jaw slackened, and his impeccable posture persisted. Nothing. Not a single tell gave him away.

Maybe the man’s confidence blinded him, his ego beyond inflated. Or he truly believed the detectives had successfully thwarted the investigation, for he required three whole seconds to grasp Anaphorah’s narrative. Cullen marked the exact second understanding sunk into the pit of Rendon Howe’s stomach.

The pupils of his beady little eyes dilated, his lids widening a fraction of an inch, and the vigor of triumph coursed through his veins. He stood, chair scraping along the tile floor so loud, the three men startled.

“Serah Hawke, would you be so kind and finish this? I don’t believe you need my help any further,” he stated.

Anaphorah’s brilliant smile danced across her face, ruby red lips pulled wide as she replied. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Rutherford. And it has been more than such to work with you again.”

 _Isabella must be out of town,_ he thought as he shook her hand, then strode for the door of the interview room, his own grin breaking free.


	82. One Man's Trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair receives a phone call from Cullen at an unholy hour.

Tension seized the muscles across his shoulders, neck tight and fingers numb after too many hours at his desk. Alistair stretched, hands high above his head as he groaned and head tilting from shoulder to shoulder, hoping for release. When none came, he shoved back from his desk and stood to pace about his office.

The clock on the wall ticked past the hour, another night slipping through his fingers as pre-dawn haze colored the sky beyond his windows. Maker, but he would not miss this. While altruistic and selfless, enacting policy benefiting all of Ferelden exacted a toll; working into the small hours of the night, cutting through political red tape, charming lobbyists, and all the _ass-kissing_ to last a lifetime.

 _It was worth it. I wouldn’t trade it for the world_.

There, alone in his office and sleep long overdue, Alistair paced. His pen tapped a clenched notepad, each idea jotted in a scribble of thoughts as they arrived. And yet, not one brought him any closer to his goal. Too many distractions weaseled their way to the forefront of his mind; Amodisia, the investigation, Cullen, and Amallia. So lost in thought, his steps slowed, dragging until he stood still in the center of the room.

A terrified yelp cut off as Alistair clamped his hand over his mouth, his desk phone ringing loud enough to wake the dead. He snatched the handset from its base and brought to his ear with a tentative, shaking hand and his voice shook as he spoke.

“Governor Theirin.”

“Alistair?”

The smooth baritone of Cullen's voice speaking his name warmed him like a cozy campfire. His heart slowed, returning to normal, and his shaking hand steadied, his grip easing on the receiver. With a deep breath, Alistair sighed.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked.

“I am now.” An absent hand ran through his hair. “Just on edge, that’s all. Keep talking though, that’ll help.”

The lack of an immediate response from Cullen unnerved him. Papers shuffled around on the other end of the line, as though he searched for something. “I was going to leave a message. I can let you go—”

A flash of fear fueled his words. “No, please,” he begged. “Something’s on your mind. Talk to me.”

Alistair pictured the roll of his amber eyes as he heard Cullen’s irritated scoff. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” he toyed.

“ _That_ ,” Cullen insisted with a soft laugh.

Maker, but he loved that sound. “I’m not doing anything,” he chided. “You called me.”

“I…” Cullen started but paused, papers shifting around once more. “I did,” he finished, somber, defeated even.

The fine hairs on the backs of Alistair’s arms stood on end, gooseflesh breaking out across his skin. “What’s wrong?”

Cullen snorted again, though it was through a laugh rather than out of irritation. “Nothing. I wanted to update you.”

His heart thumped a furious beat against his ribs, returning to its gallop. “You’ve found something?”

“Serah Hawke and I interviewed the detectives yesterday,” Cullen stated.

Cold and numb, warmth drained from his fingers and toes. “And?!”

“Is this line—”

“I don’t give a shit if this line is tapped!” Alistair barked. “Tell me everything!”

An irritated scoff started his reply. “Alright. We’ve got written confessions from Detectives Rook and Vreeland that Loghain Mac Tir ordered them to botch the investigation. In return, he padded their retirements.”

 _Loghain_.

Summoned like a long-lost memory, Alistair relived his last conversation with the man. Dark eyes stared back as he sipped coffee from a cup, his bandaged wrist exposed by the cuff of his suit.

The phone slipped from his hand as he dove for the waste bin beside his door. His hand plunged, grasping and flinging aside the useless rubbish. “Where is it?!” Pieces of paper, notes and messages alike, buried what he sought at the bottom. Rage overpowered his impatience as he upended the bin, its contents fluttering like snowflakes to the ground. All but one.

A coffee cup _plunked_ to the floor and rolled away as Alistair threw the bin aside. With a delicate hand, he cradled the cup as though it were a fragile relic, handling it with great care. Sunlight of the rising sun filtered through frosted glass, bathing the cup in a golden ray as he held aloft like a holy chalice. A long moment passed before the shout of Cullen’s voice registered, dragging him back to reality.

“Alistair! Pick up the phone you clodpole!”

With a slow shuffle, Alistair neared the desk and pawed for the phone, still staring at the cup. Grasping it, he brought the phone to his ear. “Don’t do anything with those statements, yet. I have to go, I’ll call you back,” he blurted, slamming the phone on the base, and in a daze, stumbled from his office, time running from his fingers as he grasped what might be their most important piece of evidence yet.


	83. Assuming Direct Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen visits the Redcliffe Police Department.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm telling you guys, I am not a legal expert whatsoever. I may eventually fix this in the remaster.

The Redcliffe police department toward overhead, blocking the late winter sunlight. A freezing wind whipped through the downtown city streets, ruffling his hair and tugging his scarf. Through old, metal doors, Cullen pushed, entering the massive lobby, gilded statutes and marble structure stretching three floors above. But he paid them no mind, heading straight for the stairs taking two at a time.

At the top of the third flight, green tile peeled from the trim at the base of a door labeled “Detectives Unit” and the indiscernible color on the walls begged for a new coat of paint beneath flickering fluorescent lights. Through that door Cullen pushed again, the wood catching on warped linoleum with a reverberating scrape.

Once over the threshold, he discovered a small group of women and men sitting at a cluster of desks, some on phones, others at their computers. With no sign of Detectives Rook or Vreeland besides their empty desks, Cullen breathed a sigh, easing the constriction in his chest.

Cloudy windows lined one far wall, the opposite covered in evidence mapping, white boards, glass, and cork boards covered with pins and paper and marker. Nearby, in a secluded corner sat Nathaniel Howe, forehead cradled in his hands as he hunched over a table littered with paper. Though his stare never wavered, Cullen’s heart dropped as he navigated the rows of desks. He had grown far too familiar with the detective’s unfocused stare, glassy and glazed and exhausted.

He reached the edge of the table before Nathaniel’s foggy eyes found him, a brief look of confusion before clarity returned and he straightened.

“Mr. Rutherford,” he started with an outstretched hand. Cullen took it with a firm shake. “Thank you for stopping by on such late notice.”

“It’s fine,” Cullen replied. “Should we…”

Nathaniel scanned the room, considering the hallway over Cullen’s shoulder. With a nod of his head, he said, “We’ll use interview room one.”

Down the darkened hallway they walked, Nathaniel leading them between faded ceiling lights. Though the lobby had been impressive with its gilded griffon statue and marble floors and walls, the neglect and disrepair of the detectives’ floor puzzled Cullen. How did their unit function? The question rattled his mind as Nathaniel shouldered his way into the last interrogation room at the end of the hall.

“Building's shifted again,” he said with a short laugh. “Happens this time of year.”

Cullen followed him without comment, shutting the door behind him. Across the room, Nathaniel took up a stance beside a greying window, shrouded by metal bars and thick wire. That same distant stare returned as his arms folded across his chest, gaze falling on the city sprawling to the countryside.

“We’re in a bad way,” he muttered as Cullen neared him. “I think it’s… his fault.”

Cullen shook his head. “I don’t have proof of that,” he explained as he handed over the folder. “Just the bribe.”

“This proves it?” Nathaniel asked as he took the folder. “You're sure he ordered them to botch the investigation? Paid them off?”

Cullen nodded. “Without a doubt. Financial evidence backs up the detective's statements,” he stated as Nathaniel flipped through the folder. “Hawke said she'd convince a jury in five minutes based on that alone.”

Nathaniel poured over the financial statements, falling silent as he scanned the pages with a studious eye. Several minutes passed, and as Cullen waited, his mind drifted to other thoughts, to Amodisia, to her assault a mere three weeks past, and beyond. Further and further his thoughts wandered, discovering questions that served only to obfuscate rather than clarify.

“I'm going to have Mr. Mac Tir arrested tonight.”

He had heard the words, but Cullen gaped nonetheless. “Why?!”

The detective closed the folder with a flick of his wrist, bloodshot eyes finding Cullen's. Maker, but the man had not slept a proper night’s sleep in a fortnight. With dark circles beneath his eyes and heavy lids and gaunt cheeks, it was no small miracle the detective remained standing.

A deep breath drew in before he spoke. “Rendon Howe is planning something. I don’t want to waste any more time than we already have. It’s been weeks since your interview…”

“Rendon?” Cullen scratched the back of his head. “That’s impossible. He was taken into custody with Rook and Vreeland.”

“True,” Nathaniel agreed. “But he was released without bail. Serah Hawke tried to argue a bond, which would have worked if she’d gotten an impartial judge.”

Cullen grunted an ugly scoff. “One of Loghain’s men?”

“Without a doubt,” Nathaniel jested with a wry smile. “Rendon knows we’re on to Loghain. I think he’s trying to extradite him to Tevinter. Possibly Nevarra… maybe even Antiva, but that’s a stretch.”

As Nathaniel’s thoughts faded, his exhausted stare returned to the window, glassy and unseeing. Cullen paced, unable to remain still as he considered the consequences of arresting Loghain. With limited evidence, arresting now risked everything, and a tiny voice in the back of his mind questioned Nathaniel’s motives. Loghain plotting to flee from Ferelden sounded implausible at best. But as a private investigator, Cullen had no recourse; Nathaniel Howe had all the legal power.

“Tonight, then?” he asked.

Nathaniel nodded. “Tonight,” he said as he tapped the folder with absent fingers as he made for the door. “I’ll show you out.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “I owe you, Detective Howe. Without you, I don’t think we would have gotten this far.”

The other man pulled the door open and motioned him through as he replied. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m only risking my entire livelihood to betray my father and imprison one of the most powerful men in Ferelden.”

Cullen laughed over Nathaniel’s wry chuckle as they crossed the department for the stairs. “If you need anything, call me. I’ll be at arraignment and court.”

“Serah Hawke may find you useful yet,” Nathaniel jested as they descended the large marble staircase.

Cullen laughed again, recalling a distant, abandoned memory of a time better left forgotten. “I’m sure she’ll have plenty of complaints once she sees the evidence,” he retorted, and Nathaniel agreed with his own bark of a laugh.

Down the stairs, they remained silent but for the thumps of their boots on the stone steps. The cavernous hallway loomed high above their heads as they crossed the final threshold, the din of lawyers and officers and civilians swallowed by the space. As they neared the main doors, the bustling city lay beyond where reality awaited, a sinking sensation chilling the pit of Cullen’s stomach. A second’s hesitation passed before he took Nathaniel’s offered hand, shaking with autonomous response.

“Good luck,” Cullen offered as they parted.

The first flash of confidence ghosted across the other man’s face as he replied.

“We’ll nail the son of a bitch, Mr. Rutherford. Don’t worry.”


	84. Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pawn takes Knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to repeat it from every chapter here on out: I am not a lawyer, educated in the law, or a police officer. I have very little clue as to what I am doing.

Maker, what a mess.

Loghain sat his desk, forehead cradled in his massive hands. The heels of his palms did little to ease the migraine pounding a fierce rhythm against his skull, drowning out any coherent thought. All but one.

For the first time in decades, Loghain Mac Tir stomach churned with fear. In his haste to finish what he had started–what he should have done all along–he’d made a mistake. Somewhere along the way, he’d missed Rendon’s son. And Rendon, the spineless weasel, had rolled over at the slightest hint of betrayal.

At least he had proved his worth one last time. And though abandoning Ferelden now, when she needed him most, felt like treason, Loghain had no choice. Flee to fight another day. He would return once Rendon cleaned up the mess and finished the job. With Anora governor, no one would stand in their way and Ferelden would return to its–

The heavy wooden doors of his office burst apart and Loghain jumped from his seat. Four police officers followed by a plain clothes detective marched to his desk, chased by Rendon and Loghain’s staffer. Swift strides crossed the room with grim faces, two offices flanking him. At his side, the officer to his right spoke first.

“Loghain Mac Tir, you are under arrest for the obstruction of justice in the attempted assassination of Governor Alistair Theirin—”

“I tried to stop them, sir—” 

Two sets of hands grasped his wrists and forced them together at the small of his back, chilling metal clasping them together.

“This is an outrage! Stop this, immediately, or I’ll have your—”

“Rendon.”

The small man’s nasally voice clipped short at the sound of Loghain’s. It took naught but a stern glare to keep him from speaking any further, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched.

As the officers read him his rights, they escorted him from his office, turning for the main exit of Denerim city hall.

Of course, they would go _that_ way.

Lights bloomed at the end of the hall, filling the lobby and pouring onto the street. While Loghain remained silent, head hung low and avoiding any cameras, the only sound he heard buckled his knees and he stumbled down the stairs.

In the distance, Anora’s screams demanding justice fell on deaf ears.

* * *

The ten o’clock news had started like any other night. Orlais and Ferelden relations strengthen daily, repaired after centuries of turmoil. Sanctions on Tevinter lifted and state officials meeting to resolve conflict and begin healing. And improved news from Par Volen, where peace talks continued to shape the state’s future as a part of Thedas.

Amallia sat beside him on his couch, feet wedged beneath his leg for warmth and head propped up by a hand, her phone in the other. A game had her undivided attention, some space clan fighting game that had eluded him.

“Stop that.”

She gave him a chastised look before shutting the screen off and stowing the device in her bra. “I’d be more interested if I had not been forced to watch the news without…”

The broadcast shifted, a tone of confusion from the anchor grabbing her attention. “In state news, we have an update. Loghain Mac Tir, senior aide to Ferelden’s Governor, Alistair Theirin, has been arrested…” the anchor pausing as they listened for further information. “… For obstruction of justice, bribery, and… and evidence tampering? Please be patient, more details are arriving.”

A brief silence hummed through the speakers as Cullen leaned over his knees, elbows propped on his legs and fingers steepled on his lips.

“Maker’s breath,” the anchor muttered as his focus returned to the camera. “The evidence tampering charge is regarding the investigation of the attempted assassination of Governor Theirin.”

Amallia’s jaw dropped, working, wordless, apoplectic with shock. When it was clear she could think of nothing to say, he spoke in her stead.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” he apologized. “I wanted to, but I handed the evidence off to Nathaniel a few hours ago. I didn’t know if he would get the arrest warrant sent tonight yet. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen— _mhm!_ ”

Without warning, Amallia was in his arms and Cullen was pinned to the couch, her lips crushing his in a furious kiss. In the span of a heartbeat, she ignited a need in him so primal, he grasped her backside, squeezing through the fabric of her skirt and rolling his hips against her center, control all but forgotten.

Swimming in a vast ocean of breathless desire, Cullen reeled, a heady rush of emotion and physical need. Amallia’s insistent affections compared to little else, tender but not timid; there was not a doubt in his mind what she wanted of him.

And it was then that his phone chose to interrupt them, buzzing in his pocket, the chorus of _Eye of the Tiger_ muted against their bodies.

“Who is that?” Amallia growled.

Cullen grumbled his own complaint, her irritation mutual. “I don’t know.”

“Ignore it.”

When her lips returned to his, he grunted in protest, digging in his pocket while pushing her back. Parting, she whined a soft sound that sent a twitch to his groin, and he had half a mind to take her order. But the buzzing continued, the song repeating, and Cullen withdrew the device from his pocket.

Amallia sat up, still straddling him as he answered the call.

“Rutherford.”

* * *

Amodisia stood at the island counter in the kitchen, scooping ice cream into a bow as she listened to the nightly news. Strawberry–her favorite–filled the bowl near to overflowing.

Their new Mabari puppy, Duncan, already over a hundred pounds, lumbered into the kitchen at the sound of silver wear on ceramic, rounding the island and sitting on her haunches as she licked her chops.

“I don’t know what you think you’re getting, but it’s none of my ice cream,” Amodisia insisted.

Duncan groaned, a sound of disapproval deep in her chest, but remained persistent. She stayed in her spot as Amodisia returned the tub of ice cream back to its rightful place in the freezer, then chuffed in protest when she took a spoonful into her mouth.

“Seriously, dog, no ice cream—”

From the corner of her eyes, the brief flash of a haggard face snatched her attention. She spooned another bite of ice cream into her mouth, curiosity piqued as she waited for another glimpse of the face she had seen a moment earlier.

“We’re still learning the details of the arrest, but it appears as though that Denerim Police have detained—”

The door from the attached garage burst open as Alistair entered. He called to her from the entryway, his boots thumping on the tile as he continued to call when she failed to answer. Straining to listen to the television over his insistent calls, she scoffed with a roll of her eyes, resigned to responding.

“In the kitchen! Get in here, now!”

A shuffling of his feet preceded his warmth at her back, his massive arms reaching around and wrapping her in his bearlike embrace. “What’s got you so upset, my dear?”

“The arrest was made earlier tonight, at approximately ten o’clock. Loghain Mac Tir was brought to the Denerim county station where he is being detained. Unfortunately, we’ve only confirmed one of his charges, that of bribery, but we will update you as soon as we’ve confirmed the rest.”

Amodisia turned to find Alistair a furious shade of red, nostrils flared and eyes wide. From his pocket he tore a familiar cell phone, punching the screen with a hard press of his thumb, then held it to his ear. It rang several times before Amodisia heard the familiar baritone of Cullen’s growl.

“Rutherford.”

“What did you do, Cullen!” Alistair roared. “What in Andraste’s holy flaming asshole did you fucking do?!”

“Alistair, don’t yell at him,” she begged, “it’s not his fault. Put him on speaker, please.”

All his bluster drained from him in the span of one deep breath and he set the phone on the island counter, pressing the speaker button with his index finger.

“Talk.”

Before he started, a bedraggled sigh breathed into the phone, and Amodisia imagined the blonde man running his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Alistair. Nathaniel called me this morning and asked if I had the evidence ready to go. I tried to tell him we didn’t have enough, but he insisted. So, I brought it to him. The case is back in RPD’s hands.”

“Maker, Cullen, what were you thinking?!” Alistair groaned. “This is a disaster, the only thing we have on Loghain is circumstantial. Even the detective’s statements are worth nothing, and Rendon is out without bail.”

A rough scrape muted Cullen’s voice, a few short phrases traded with another person–Amallia, she assumed–before he returned to the call. “Rendon was going to get Loghain out of the state. Nathaniel had no choice but to act. While he has his angles to work, we still need to keep looking for more evidence.”

Alistair banged a fist on the counter, startling Amodisia such that she squeaked. “Dammit, Cullen!” he spat, “we might have had more evidence if you’d given it a few more weeks!”

“A few more weeks and Loghain would be free and clear in another state,” Cullen snapped. “Don’t you dare throw this back in my face, Alistair, I _chose_ to help you when you _asked_ me to. Don’t make me regret that decision.”

“Excuse me?” Alistair barked. “You _begged_ me to let you find the man that shot Amallia! Or have you forgotten that, too?”

“Stop it!”

Amodisia’s shrill berating silenced the two of them in the blink of an eye, Alistair glaring at her with eyes so full of hurt and frustration. “You’re arguing over something that cannot be changed. It’s done.”

“She’s right,” Cullen sighed. “I am so sorry, Alistair, I wanted to tell you.”

Behind those eyes of pain, Amodisia noted the hint of his defiant fury still burning as he picked up the phone and said, “I’ll talk to you later, Cullen.” With a swipe of his thumb, he ended the call before the other man could say good-bye.

Several silent seconds ticked by, stretching beyond a minute, then two before Alistair, staring at nothing but the floor, rounded the counter with a slow shuffle. “Good night, Sia.”

Amodisia held back her tears with great care, not wanting Alistair to see her so upset. It was, after all, her fault that they were in this mess. They’d come for her, on more than one occasion, and it occurred to her then that the governorship would have been so much easier for Alistair without her.

Resigned, Amodisia headed for the stairs, following in Alistair’s wake, and she hoped that by the time she made it into the bed, her husband would be fast asleep.


	85. Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain sleeps while Cullen rests not.

Metal bars rattled beneath massive fists of the holding cells in Denerim county jail. Grey-green paint covered the walls and the iron gates, peeling and flaking to reveal ancient coats of what was once the same shade of putrid green.

Each individual cell had its own fluorescent light, some dimmer than others, some flickering in their last hours of life. A double bunk, a toilet, and a bench lined each of the three cinder block walls. Within those stone cages and barred entries some men stood, some sat, and some lay on their bunks, staring at the ceiling. Some shouted their innocence while others pleaded with officers as they walked by, begging for their one phone call. And others yet rattled the bars of their cage until an officer neared, nightstick in hand, ready to catch one of them unawares, rapping their knuckles with a whip-like  _crack_  and a shout to keep quiet.

Despite the cacophony, despite the eyesore that was the paint and flickering lights, and the musty, putrid stench that permeated the hallway, Loghain, alone in his cell, lay on the bottom bunk snoring loud as a chainsaw.

* * *

 

When February’s wicked precipitation coated Redcliffe in another half meter of snow, Cullen’s patience froze, untapped. Without a single word from Alistair, he hadn’t heard from the man in nearly two weeks, and not for a lack of trying. Several times every day, he attempted Alistair’s cell phone with calls and text messages and emails, but to no avail. And his staff at the governor’s office remained useless, never connecting him with his friend.

So, there he sat in his office, towering view overlooking Redcliffe and its park covered in its pristine, stark white blanket. The debate warred between his ear as he stared at his desk phone, bandying about the idea of contacting Amodisia instead.

The internal struggle lasted but a second. He plucked the handset from the base and dialed a quick punch of the number pad.

* * *

 

The phone at her desk burst out in a shrill ring and Amodisia startled, unprepared for the sudden interruption. Setting aside her work, she reached out and smacked the button for the speaker phone.

“Theirin’s, this is Sia.”

A deep, familiar baritone replied. “Sia? Is Alistair available?”

Confused, Amodisia shook her head. “He’s at the capital. Why?”

A grumble of annoyance preceded his concerns. “I’m trying to get a hold of him. I think I've found something else in the  _Warden Capitals_  document. Do you think you could have him give me a call when he gets home?”

Talking as she shuffled documents about on her desk, Amodisia stuttered in confusion. “Can’t you… can’t you call him?”

“I’ve tried,” Cullen snipped with an exasperated huff. “He’s not answering. His aid won’t forward me to him and I can’t leave a message, it’s too sensitive. I’m worried something’s wrong.”

Maker, now what? An absent hand cupped her forehead, fingertips prodding the remainder of her wound. “Last I spoke with him this morning, everything seemed fine. He’s extremely busy right now with transition teams,” she explained. “I imagine some of his time will free up in a couple weeks.”

Silence stretched on for several awkward seconds before Cullen cleared his throat. “Maybe you can help me,” he pondered, voice creeping skyward.

A girlish giggle bubbled up from her throat. “I would love to help, Cullen. What's got you wound so tight?”

Papers shuffled as Amodisia imagined Cullen flipping through the extensive transaction list in the  _Warden Capitals_  file. “Here,” he stopped, the thump of his hand on his desk heard over the phone. “There’s a third payee I found, aside from the two detectives.”

“Who is it?” she asked, curiosity piqued.

More rustling of paper met her ears as Cullen mumbled under his breath. “After a lot of digging and… calling in a few favors, it looks like an account with a foundation called Antivan Crows.”

Her stomach flipped, the distinct sinking sensation as though she were falling silencing her for a moment. Her lips parted, jaw falling slack as another piece of the puzzle slipping into place with such ease, Amodisia wondered why she hadn’t figured it all out sooner.

“Sia? You there?”

“I ah…” she paused, swallowing with a thick gulp. “I’m here. You… what did you say? Which foundation?”

“The-” Cullen started, paper cracking like a whip through the phone, “Ah, Antivan Crows. Why? Do you know them?”

Oh, Maker. Amodisia palmed her forehead, elbows propped on her desk to support the heavy weight of her conscience. “I do,” she conceded.

“What can you tell me about them? Anything you know might be helpful,” Cullen urged.

“I don’t actually know anything about the foundation itself besides the ah… services they offer,” she started. “But, I was… an acquaintance with one of their members many years ago.”

Cullen grunted, the sound of interest piqued. “And do you still maintain that acquaintance?”

“Not since I left the Redcliffe Police force,” she admitted. “It wouldn’t look good for the governor's wife to be associated with a private special forces operative.”

Another agreeable grunt sounded over the phone. “You wouldn’t be able to put me in contact with this acquaintance, would you?”

A long, drawn sigh passed through her nose as Amodisia considered the process of tracking down and contacting her friend. Of course, she would try at the very least. But handing him over to a private investigator, and then to her own government? That kind of betrayal destroyed the best of friendships, let alone her long forgotten connection with her Crow contact.

“Let me speak with him first,” she insisted. “I may be able to secure a statement without you needing to interrogate him.”

“That would be far preferred over the alternative,” Cullen said with a short laugh. “I’m ready for this case to be over.”

Amodisia stared at a picture on her desk; Alistair and herself sitting on a park bench, carefree and ready to take on the world’s problems, mere weeks before her husband took office.

“Me, too, Cullen. Me, too.”


	86. Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia and Cullen go snowshoeing in the park.

Another fresh snowfall covered the park, Amallia sniffling in the cold as she breathed with a heavy pant.  _Snowshoeing._ A typical outdoor activity for Cullen. Rock-climbing, hiking, ice-skating, snowboarding, and now, snowshoeing in the park in the early hours of dusk. And though Amallia thought of herself as no pushover, she struggled through the snow, awkward on her first set of snowshoes. The cold air seared her lungs, stinging with each breath, and after an hour of trudging behind Cullen, her hips ached as if she’d fought for her life in three matches.

“Tired?”

A part of her wanted to say no, to grumble and push on to prove something, to him or herself, she wasn’t sure. But as she opened her mouth to speak, Cullen’s phone rang from deep within his coat. He removed a glove and dug it out, then frowned as he stared at the number.

“I’m so sorry, Mal, I—”

She shrugged with a wave of her hand. “Go, it’s fine.”

A small smile replaced his frown as he swiped a thumb across the screen and answered. “Rutherford.” With that, he turned and trudged up the winding path a few yards, and Amallia headed for the untrodden snow.

Off the beaten path lay fresh powder, light and fluffy and beckoning to her for a snow angel. Unclipping her boots from the snowshoes, she skipped over the snowbank and eased herself to the ground, stretching and rolling her sore hips with knees pinned together. The relief from the awkward stance washed over her body, the cold seeping through her snow pants and coat to soothe sore muscles.

With a few swings of her legs and arms, she plowed through the snow, smoothing it to the hard-packed snow beneath the new layer. Careful not to disturb her work, she stood, rising to her feet and jumping away, then turned to regard her work.

Crooked, the soft slope to the side of the path leaned to one side. Shrugging, she returned to her shoes, satisfied nonetheless, and slipped them over her boots once more. Cullen returned not a moment later, along with his disappointed frown.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to cut our date short,” he sighed. “Hawke needs me to come down to the courthouse. Wants me to confirm a few things before tomorrow.”

“Now?” she admonished. “Aren’t you hungry?”

As if on cue, his stomach grumbled before he could speak. “I’m starving,” he said as he motioned for the main path. “Could you start dinner? I’ll be back as soon as I’m done. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Sure,” Amallia started, “but tell Ana she owes me.”

Cullen barked a laugh that echoed through the dense forest surrounding them. “I’m not so sure she’ll see it that way.”

“She’s the DA, she has to prosecute on behalf of the state, given the evidence,” she retorted. “What was she going to do, ignore it?”

When Cullen fell silent, Amallia followed suit, replacing her snow shows then heading for the car. Silence filled the minutes as they trudged back to the parking lot, Cullen’s gaze falling a few feet in front of them. If she listened close enough, Amallia imagined she might hear his thoughts, the very tinkering of his brain as it rattled off the minutia of the wretched case and how much he wished it was finished.

Through a break in the trees, they turned a corner and came upon the parking lot. Empty but for her car, they shuffled to it, and Amallia opened the hatch.

“I talked to Alistair a few weeks ago. Before the arrest…”

Amallia froze, snowshoe straps in hand as she leaned on the bumper of her car. “And?”

“He was… distracted. Something had him bothered but he wouldn’t talk to me,” Cullen grunted as he removed a snowshoe.

Amallia shook as much snow from her shoe as she could before she placed it in the hatch. “He’s stressed. More than normal, I imagine.”

Cullen shook his head like a braying horse. “No, this was abnormal, even for Alistair,” he mused as he placed his shoes in the car. “When I told him about the detective’s statements, something happened.”

Amallia shut the hatch as she spoke. “What was it?”

Before he opened the door, Cullen remained silent, lips pursed as he stared with blank eyes at nothing. “I have no clue.” With a sullen frown, he opened the door and took his place in the passenger seat.

Amallia rounded the car and entered the driver’s seat, starting the car and cranking the heat as  _Iron Man_ ’s grungy guitar began with the roar of the engine. “What do you mean? What did he say?”

“Nothing,” Cullen sighed with a resigned flop of his hands in his lap. “I think he dropped the phone. It took a minute before he came back. He told me not to do anything with the statements and that he’d call me back. That was nearly four weeks ago.”

Another moment of silence passed before he continued, and so, Amallia took the opportunity to back out of the parking lot. A minute ticked past before he spoke again. “I handed the evidence over without talking to Alistair first. Nathaniel insisted. And then there was the arrest. That was two weeks ago. We talked that night. We argued…”

Amallia gaped as she turned to the main road. “Maker, Cullen, have you tried to call him?”

“A few times,” he admitted. “But he never answers or his aide answers and takes a message. I think I fucked up, Mal. I don’t think he wants anything to do with me anymore.”

Maker, but the ache in his voice. The keen sting of a friend’s avoidance compared to little else. Too familiar with that feeling, Amallia consoled Cullen as best she could. “He’s probably just really busy,” she suggested. “Transition teams, this case, and the regular day to day churn of the governor’s office.”

Still staring at the same spot three feet in front of him, Cullen muttered. “I hope so. Maker’s breath, I hope he’s alright.”

“Don’t dwell on it. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow,” Amallia warned.

He grunted with a wry smile. “Yeah. A long day on a court bench. Great.”


	87. Gentleman Caller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor in the middle of the night? Sure, why not.

Incessant knocking roused Cullen from his desk, covered by a smattering of files sent with him by the district attorney that required his attention. When the pounding persisted, he shoved his chair and stood with a groan, back sore from too many hours of hunched shoulders and a crooked neck.

Hawke had provided him with nothing but more work, a stack of papers that needed reviewing, notes, and editing statements to finalize preparation for tomorrow’s case. And by the time he’d returned to his apartment, the hour neared ten o’clock, dinner cold on the island counter, and Amallia fast asleep on the couch. To his bed he had carried her, promising a long vacation once the case ended.

Ten feet from the door, the pounding thumped on the heavy wood again, and Cullen scowled despite his curiosity. “Just a minute, I’m coming,” he hissed. The pounding stopped short and for a moment, Cullen hesitated.

Who might visit so late? With Amallia asleep in his bed and his co-workers on a job, that left precious few friends to entertain in the middle of the night. Against his better judgment, Cullen grasped the handle, turned the knob, and popped the door from the frame.

Through the inch-wide opening, Cullen spotted familiar golden eyes and light brown hair paired with parted lips. A single moment stretched until he tore the chain from the door and threw it wide to admit Alistair, trim navy suit wrinkled at the hips and tie hanging loose from his neck. Without a word, his friend crossed the threshold, and Cullen shut the door behind him.

“Alistair, what are you doing here?”

The other man turned to regard his friend, the same wide eyes and parted lips boring into him. And for an eternity, Cullen stared, mere inches from Alistair’s face, so close he smelled the dry cleaning of his suit, the crisp soap of his shaving cream, and the earthy coconut of his hair product. Though they traded no words, Alistair’s pleading stare said more than anything.

Space closed between them, Cullen beckoned by warm fingers at the pulse of his wrist. Every safeguard, every wall, every barrier he had built in the last few years crumbled under the weight of Alistair’s breath, so warm on his lips, and Cullen surrendered to his will. But, with naught but a scant inch remaining between them, the reality of him, of this man, this ridiculous, infuriating, gorgeous man so near, Cullen startled into action. A hug embraced Alistair about the shoulders, too fast for him to embrace Cullen in return. As quick as it had started, Cullen parted from the other man and repeated his question.

“What’s going on?”

The subtle knot at the bridge of Alistair’s nose sank Cullen’s heart, and his small, wry frown ripped it from his chest. “Nothing,” Alistair stated. “I wanted to apologize. In person.”

Confusion clouded his mind as Cullen struggled to recall anything for which Alistair might need to apologize. And then the memory returned, clear as day, Alistair’s frustration ending their phone call on less than amicable terms. His own wry smile followed Cullen’s shrug as he spoke.

“You don’t need to apologize. I understand.”

Alistair grunted, a gruff sound of disapproval. “No, I absolutely do. You… you did the right thing.”

At the time, Cullen had agreed with Nathaniel to a point; with the possibility of Loghain fleeing, he had been left no choice but to arrest him. But Cullen despised the fact that Rendon had forced their hand too early, with nothing but circumstantial evidence on which to prosecute.

“You did,” Alistair repeated. “Regardless of what happens in court tomorrow, at least he’ll be tried. That’s all we can ask for.”

True, but Cullen’s opinion on the matter remained unchanged. “I know. I still wish we could have been better prepared.”

Alistair clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You did well, Cullen. I’m so sorry I yelled at you.”

Again, Cullen waved off his apology. “Seriously, Ali, it’s fine. But I’d appreciate it if you’d return my phone calls.”

A sigh of relief burst from Alistair’s chest as he gathered Cullen in his massive embrace. “I know. I’m sorry for that, too. You deserve better. At least you have Mal.” Parted, he scanned Cullen’s apartment. “Speaking of, where is she?”

“Ali,” Cullen admonished. “It’s two in the morning. She’s asleep.”

A devious grin curled his lips. “Here?”

That familiar sting blossomed across his cheeks and along his neck as Cullen folded his arms. “Yes.”

“Aw, a sleepover! How cute,” Alistair jested. “Should I join you two?”

 _There_. Another not so thinly veiled hint, followed by a suggestive hitch of his brow, Alistair laid the charm on thick. And when Cullen merely gaped, his friend leaped into action.

“I was joking,” Alistair scoffed. “Just a joke. I’ll take up on the couch.”

“The couch? Why?”

Alistair flung his duffle bag down beside the couch. “Amodisia will be here in the morning, she couldn’t take the flight with me tonight.”

Though his apartment lacked the necessary security, Cullen held his tongue. “You could stay in Mal’s apartment, sleep in a real bed.”

With a casual shrug, Alistair slipped past him, a subtle hand brushing his hip. “I think the couch will be just fine, if a bit lonely.”

He hoped Alistair had not heard the short breathless gasp catch in his throat. On his heels, Cullen followed, passing the bathroom and heading back to his office. “I swear to the Maker, Alistair, one day, you’ll be the death of me.”

“And your indecision will be the death of me,” Alistair retorted, an exaggerated sigh of longing following his pithy comment.

Despite his irritation, Cullen smiled, relieved to have his best friend back.


	88. Deviant, Take 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few hours before the trial and things go a little sideways...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya thirsty cunts made me do this. I wanted it just as bad as ya’ll did, too.

Three hours.

Three hours stood between him, his family, and justice.

 _Except for Amallia_.

In the mirror, Cullen scowled as he buttoned his shirt, enraged at himself for failing to find the person who had shot Amallia. What type of man, what type of boyfriend, did that make him? Protect your loved ones, his father had always told him. And yet, he had failed Amallia; the memory of her lying limp in his arms flashed before his mind’s eye, the stain of her blood covering not only his own suit but Alistair’s, too. His fingers froze at his collar, eyes wide and unseeing in the mirror as the memory lingered.

And then the vision vanished as his mind wrested for control, the small voice of reason clamoring through the darkness. At least they had wrangled Loghain. At least they had the man who had bungled the investigation, who had led them astray with intent, with a malevolence unlike anyone worthy of forgiveness. At least they had someone to hold accountable.

Did they, though? Had Cullen amassed enough evidence to convince the jury? Besides the  _Warden Capital’s_  document and the detectives’ confessions, they had little and less to prove Loghain’s involvement. What if the jury decided the prosecution’s case too thin? What if they acquitted?

Alistair would never speak to him again, of that he was sure. Amodisia might forgive him in time, but that might take years. And his family knew of his involvement, so their disappointment would follow. What of his work? Might Aveline fire him? Distance herself from the private investigator that had developed the Redcliffe Police Department a case so worthless, the district attorney may as well have tossed it in the bin.

And Amallia. Surely, she would leave him. What could he possibly offer her after that, after failing to catch the man responsible for her nigh mortal wound? Nothing, he decided. He had nothing to give her. And if smart, she’d leave him, now, before he disappointed her any further.

So lost in his malaise, Cullen startled when Alistair spoke, standing beside him shoulder to shoulder. With a considering glance, Alistair adjusted his tie, his single eyebrow arching towards his hairline.

“Should we go to the courthouse separately?”

The rousing beat of  _Sweet Nothings_  filled his ears, accompanying Alistair’s tenor as Amallia’s latest obsession skipped through a playlist. Despite his sour mood—and Alistair’s tactics—Cullen smiled. With a shake of his head, he regarded Alistair in the bathroom mirror. Smarm thicker than cream curled the corner of the other man’s lips, and his brow waggled, insinuating every innuendo Cullen imagined. And for the first time in years, since reuniting with his best friend, Cullen relinquished a modicum of control. Amallia  _must_  be right. Denial had proved nothing but frustrating, serving only to fuel his longing for the other man.

But what if he they had been mistaken? What if Alistair’s personality lent itself to flirting with such careless ease, he did so with everyone? Maker’s breath, but that charming, crooked smile and suggestive brow meant little else.  _Right?_ He must feel the same way.

And yet, with a roll of his eyes, Cullen tossed his tie behind his neck and slipped it under his collar as he avoided the other man’s gaze. “Why? That’s extra cars for REDIS to track.”

“Precisely,” Alistair replied as he straightened his cuffs and shuffled closer a step. “That’s more cars for another assassin to follow, too.”

Suspicion crawled along Cullen’s neck, the fine hairs standing on end as gooseflesh pebbled his back. Though a valid topic, Alistair had never discussed Cullen’s work with him. Why now?

The answer shined so plain on Alistair’s face—hopeful eyes brightening, crooked grin spreading, and one eyebrow hanging high—Cullen didn't resist another roll of his eyes. He ignored the implication, replying in earnest. “True.”

Alistair glared, his face falling flat with a stare of judgment. And then his hard frown fell to Cullen’s tie where his admonishment vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by disgust. “Will you let me fix that for you?”

Before Cullen voiced his protest, Alistair grabbed the knot of his tie and, with deft fingers, unraveled it. And though Cullen had never admitted it aloud, the sensation of Alistair’s fingers even near his neck sent shivers racing along his spine.

Best not to let him on. “I know how to tie my own tie, Alistair.”

“Clearly, you do not,” his friend argued with a snort through his nose as he flipped the front of the tie over the back. “I’ll not have my…” he paused, a careful glance considering Cullen before he continued. “… My best friend going to court in a half Windsor.”

“When did you learn to do all this?” Cullen asked as he avoided Alistair’s… everything. His fingers, his bronze brown hair, his airy scent, his entire existence encroaching, overwhelming his consciousness as Cullen backed against the bathroom wall.

Alistair followed with a shrug, oblivious of Cullen’s retreat as he slipped the front of the tie through the knot. “Duncan, mostly. But YouTube suffices in a pinch. There.”

With the tie complete, Alistair brushed his shoulders smooth and admired his handiwork. A long look dragged, falling from Cullen’s tie to his toes, and beneath that stare, he shivered once more. Maker’s breath, but it had to be true; no one besides Amallia looked at him the way Alistair did. And every time they occupied the same space, Cullen caught his best friend staring, like he did now, eyes lingering and lips parted.

“What are you doing?”

Summoned by his voice, Alistair’s eyes met his own, followed by the subtle quirk of a smile. “Staring. It’s a… it’s a nice suit.”

A thick swallow bobbed his throat as Cullen struggled to breathe. Once more, Alistair neared, his refreshing scent wafting over him, mint and honeysuckle filling his nose. And then the warmth of his fingers brushed his neck, slipping into his hair, and fire lanced along his spine as Cullen sucked a breath through his nose. Nearer, inch by inch, Alistair leaned, and with each second, control slipped from Cullen’s grasp as he sighed.

And not any ordinary sigh. Not one of exasperation or impatience. No, this sigh lived deep in his chest, hidden there, buried along with his desire. Desires for a man he had loved for the better part of fifteen years. That sigh, so quiet even Cullen himself had barely heard it, exploded with the light of a million stars in Alistair’s eyes.

A scant inch shy of one another, Alistair broke the silence, a half-muttered question. “Is this…”

 _Yes_. Every fiber in his existence begged for release, to bellow his desire to the sky, and yet, Cullen, in his infinite bid for control, resisted. But nothing stopped him. Nothing stopped either of them from being themselves, from being  _together._

And then a voice, though small and distant, rose above the roaring torrent of emotions. The trial had yet to even start. And what of Amallia? Of Amodisia? What of his own career, and Alistair’s future? What of their families and friends? What about the media and the public? Would anyone understand? How might anyone understand a man who loved both his girlfriend  _and_  a married man?

_Who cares?_

His heart beckoned, overpowering his conscience with a wail like a banshee. And he agreed; truly, what did it matter? Nobody needed to know, besides their loved ones. And if bothered not Amodisia or Amallia, then why not indulge themselves?

And then his voice of reason returned, that vestige of reality wherein lay his doubts. What if Alistair did not feel the same way? Cullen struggled to imagine a life without his best friend, recalling their miserable years apart. What if confessing drove him away? Though his rejection may sting, what if Alistair responded not with a simple declination, but with disgust?

What if Alistair thought him [deviant](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7585657)?

Cullen grabbed Alistair by the arms, stopping him shy of his own lips. Alistair’s fingers slid from his hair, racing gooseflesh across his skin, and Cullen shivered despite his protest. “I’m sorry, Alistair. I… I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

Coy as always, Alistair’s subtle smile and soft gaze sparked a blaze of need in Cullen’s chest. And yet, he resisted, restrained and professional, as always. Throat dry as sandpaper, he swallowed a thick gulp but failed to mask the quaver in his voice. “Whatever… this is.”

For a moment, Alistair hesitated, the weight of him lifting from Cullen’s hands as his face fell. Cullen regretted every word, wishing to take it all back if it meant the return of Alistair’s easy smile. Deep in his chest, the other man spoke when Cullen remained silent. “I see. I thought you might… that we… are you sure about this?”

Cullen remained silent a long moment before responding. “No.”

Alistair’s fingers returned to his neck, his gentle touch surprising for a man so large. Cullen’s grip on his arms fell slack, Alistair pressing closer once more. And while Cullen’s concerns tumbled through his head, he listened to his heart.

“I think I know what might help,” Alistair whispered as his hips pinned Cullen to the wall.

Another thick swallow failed to soothe this drying throat. “Wh-what’s that.”

Maker’s breath, why? Why had he waited so long? The warmth of Alistair’s breath on his ear enveloped him, enthralled by his voice. “The truth.”

The unbidden moan that escaped his lips betrayed the last ounce of control Cullen might have had, for Alistair’s own sigh followed with the weight of him. Time slowed, stretched, sustained as the presence of this man, of his best friend, engulfed his every sense of existence.  There in that liminal space between his racing heartbeats, Cullen surrendered, and his world shattered.

Nothing. For a moment, for a single skipping heartbeat swept beneath the crashing waves of adrenaline, Cullen ceased to exist. And then, in the next breath, that numbing cold ebbed to reveal tentative fingers at his hips. Another sharp suck of air found the weight of Alistair’s hips pinned against his own. And with his third breath, reality returned, time snapping back to the present as a subtle roll of Alistair’s hips brushed his stiffened length against his own.

In that fleeting moment of comprehension, fear vanished, and with it, his doubt. Free of the bonds that once restrained him, Cullen relinquished the reigns of control, yielding to his lust. And with that liberation followed the courage, the confidence to meet his newfound lover’s gaze with equal adoration. Golden yellow, Alistair’s bright stare rivaled that of the sun.

Palpable need crackled in the air, and Cullen heaved a gasp in the wake of temptation. So close, Alistair’s breath warmed his lips, and the rapid thumping of Alistair’s heart hammered against his chest, matching his own, beat for beat. And inch by inch, the space between them disappeared until none remained.

Not a single thought remained to Cullen as their lips met, a firm, incessant kiss obliterating any witty retort or perverted innuendo he might have readied. Maker, but his  _lips_. So firm, and yet, gentle, kind and caring and  _arousing_  beyond his wildest dreams. More, he needed more, needed to feel him, needed to feel his skin on his, needed to feel every  _inch_  of his body bare against his own. Greedy fingers pried Alistair’s belt loose, and much to Cullen’s delight, the other man whimpered a sound so pathetic, a twitch of his groin spun the room with a lightheaded rush.

Whispers begging for more, demanding their desires, filled his ears as Cullen drew the zipper of his pants. There, Alistair’s commands grew vulgar, demanding, ordering,  _grab me, yes, I want to feel you touch me, Cullen, I want to feel your mouth on me, please, suck my c—_

“Get a room.”

Alistair flung himself from Cullen as if struck at the sound of Amallia’s admonishing tone. Like a fish out of water, both men gaped, Cullen’s stare darting between Alistair and Amallia, her broad shoulders framed by the bathroom doorway. At her wrist, she checked her silvery watch, then turned back to them with a devious smile.

“You know, I suppose we do still have nearly three hours before the trial starts.”

Half-started sentences fell well short of complete before Cullen grunted in frustration. “What are you suggesting?”

A scoffing laugh served as her reply. On her heel, Amallia turned as she spoke, not to them, but to Amodisia.

“Let’s go, love. I think they could use  _more_  than a few minutes alone.”

A girlish giggle accompanied Amallia’s sharp clicks of her heels down the hallway, followed by the door of Cullen’s apartment slamming shut.

With a sidelong glance, Cullen regarded Alistair, with his disheveled hair, untucked shirt, and unzipped pants. The sight of him shy of ravished coursed a shock of arousal through Cullen’s veins.

“What now?”

The question drew Cullen’s gaze to Alistair’s, a wicked grin spreading across his lips. In two steps, Cullen returned to him, but this time, he knelt. With his hands-on Alistair’s thighs, Cullen cocked his chin to look him straight in the eye as he spoke.

“What were you about to say before we were so rudely interrupted?”


	89. Trial of the Decade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about criminal justice or law. I did as much research as I could stand, which was a ridiculous number of hours. I probably fucked a lot of shit up. But at this point, I just want this damn thing done.

Delicate whispers flitted about the cavernous courtroom, secrets thin as thread seeking her ears as Amallia stared at the oaken banister that sat before her. An absent thumb rubbed at the scar on her bicep, arms folded across her chest and hugging her ribs. Cold as a frozen lake, she shivered her bare shoulders in the frigid courtroom, baffled by a judge capable of thinking in such conditions, let alone the jury.

Movement beyond the banister caught her eye, three rows ahead at the prosecution’s table. There sat Anaphorah Hawke, shuffling through papers and jotting down notes, her world consisting of little else in that moment. A laptop sat on the table between her and her partner, a well-tanned woman with long, dark hair that Amallia did not recognize. The woman handed Anaphorah pieces of paper every few minutes, and the district attorney considered each one with great care. In their wordless communication, Amallia watched, enamored by their flawless system, a well-oiled machine.

To Amallia’s right sat Cullen and to her left, the aisle. In their section sat several parties representing the state of Ferelden, Nathaniel Howe among them and the rest unfamiliar. And cross the aisle sat the defense’s family where she spotted Anora in the front row, her trim grey pantsuit pressed with pristine lines and lavender jewelry glimmering in the early March sunlight filtering through the high courtroom windows. Beside her sat many people Amallia assumed comprised of Loghain’s family, angular Fereldan faces still as stone.

Her head snapped down at a sudden, sharp squeeze of her hand, Cullen's vicelike grip tightening beyond uncomfortable. She whispered a hiss in protest as she pried his fingers from hers, biting back the urge to shout. With her hand wrenched free, she glared at him only to find Cullen staring over their shoulders with eyes wide as saucers.

Like the crack of a whip, Amallia torqued her neck to the entrance hoping to spot the source of Cullen’s ire. There she found Amodisia and Alistair striding in rhythm, the massive courtroom doors lumbering shut as they walked and their faces a lesson in confident calm. With them rolled a wave of sound, assaulting the courtroom from the hall beyond the doors, flickering camera shutters and reporters beckoning to their governor and his wife for a smile, a wink, a look at least. But the couple ignored their pleas, impervious to the call for attention.

As the doors closed and a renewed silence descended upon the courtroom, Amallia imagined the articles, her friend’s silhouettes plastered on every major news website within the hour. Evening news stations and morning papers alike printed the same image in her mind’s eye, journalists and anchors reporting the trial of the decade.

When Alistair slipped into her aisle, it occurred to her that everyone in Redcliffe—everyone in _Ferelden_ —might see her own face in those pictures with Cullen’s arm about her shoulder. Then, as if summoned by her thoughts, his hand tightened on hers once more. No struggle or protest relinquished his grasp, not until Alistair sat beside him with a fresh smile. Only when his hand met his knee did Cullen ease his grip on Amallia’s hand, and his focus returned with a sheepish frown to both of them. Between his hands he rubbed hers as Cullen whispered his apology, bringing the backs of her fingers to his lips for a quick kiss.

“Do I get one, too?”

Alistair’s teasing tenor earned him Cullen’s glare, but before he responded, Amodisia interrupted, hot on her husband’s heels. She had a hug and a quick kiss for both Amallia and Cullen, then parted the two men, seating herself between them with a sardonic smile. Despite her churning stomach, Amallia covered her mouth to mute her laughter; at least Amodisia had the wits about her to prevent the media from learning any salacious secrets during such an intense media frenzy.

When Cullen leaned back to speak with Alistair, Amallia strained an ear, but she caught nothing beyond a single, “Thanks,” followed by Alistair’s easy smile, that familiar charming crooked grin. And then the tension seeped from Cullen’s shoulders, his fingers smoothing over the backs of her fingers once more. At least the two of them had resolved _that_ tension, thank the Maker.

“How long have you been here?”

Amallia leaned over her knees to speak with Amodisia, her rich brown curls falling over her shoulders. “About twenty minutes. We left as soon as…” she paused, considering Cullen, but he paid her no mind. As soon as we were ready.”

Amodisia frowned, but said nothing in response, shrugging as she sat back in her seat. The minutes dragged, a slow passing of time as nothing but small talk flitted through the courtroom, incoherent whispers and intelligible mumbling trading between attendees. When another fifteen minutes passed without a hint of the trial beginning, she leaned into Cullen and whispered in his ear.

“What’s going on?”

His wide shoulders shrugged. “Not sure. Never done this before.”

Amodisia leaned forward again and added her thoughts. “Wasn’t it supposed to start twenty minutes ago?”

“I thought so,” Amallia said with a sigh. “The letter said –”

Her breath caught in her throat, silenced as a door on the opposite side of the courtroom opened with a slow swing. There was a moment’s pause, a hesitation and shuffling of feet before a man Amallia had never seen before, small and greying, entered the room. A step behind followed a police officer, and not a beat later strode the towering Loghain Mac Tir in a fine suit, clean-shaven, and half his hair tied back in traditional Fereldan fashion. Larger than she had imagined, Amallia gawked, the defendant’s broad and towering frame filling her stomach with dread, fingers and toes numb.

When the far door shut, Amallia turned to the door on the right as it opened, and the bailiff spoke.

“All rise.”

Tall and dark with cheekbones sharp as a knife, Vivienne De Fer strode through the door. If Amallia had thought Loghain intimidating, this woman had her knees shaking as she stood with the court. Judge De Fer stood on her dais, looming over her domain, her exquisite beauty terrifying as she was enchanting.

“Be seated.”

As Amallia obeyed with the court, Rendon Howe, too, followed suit much to the ire of Judge De Fer.

“ _Not_ you, Mr. Howe.”

Face unreadable, Loghain's lawyer froze halfway to his chair, then straightened.

“In my courtroom, I expect decorum of the highest caliber. Procedure will be observed, and I will not suffer any interruptions, Mr. Howe, _nor_ will I suffer any _roguish_ attitude, Serah Hawke. Do I make myself clear?”

Both attorneys nodded, blank faces unmoving but their hands betrayed their composure. Anaphorah fidgeted with the strap of her briefcase while Rendon thumbed through his stack of papers.

“Excellent.” Judge De Fer seated herself as she smiled. “Please, be seated. We are already behind schedule. Bailiff, please retrieve the jury.”

The uniformed man beside her dais acquiesced, turning to the same door through which she had entered and opened it once more. Through it strode the twelve members of the jury and several replacements.

But Amallia remained transfixed on the woman at the head of the room despite the arrival of the jury. As they filtered to their seats, the judge spoke, and Amallia failed to hear her, enthralled by the woman’s pristine poise and impeccable posture. With skin dark as earth, she radiated power, her elegant white judge’s collar stark in contrast. And then the severity of her words filtered through the haze of admiration, clear and calm but for her stern glare.

“These charges are not to be taken lightly. Though there is no human victim in this trial…”

Judge De Fer paused as her wide eyes slid across the room and landed square on Amallia. A glance to either side revealed all eyes on her, several raised eyebrows and a sudden uprising of whispers, of _That’s her,_ and _, that’s the woman who was shot last spring_ , and _, she’s here, the woman that got shot, what is she doing here?_

Never had the spotlight innerved Amallia. All her years performing center stage had not once shaken her resolve. But there in the middle of the courtroom, with all eyes on her, and every whisper about her, Amallia desired nothing less than to run for the doors.

At last, Judge De Fer turned to the jury. “I implore you to consider the evidence with great care. Your observations mean no less simply because we are overseeing what most consider victimless crimes. Please perform your civic duty to the best of your ability.”

That hit closer to home than Amallia had anticipated. Judge De Fer, so familiar with the case and its origin, had sent a clear message with that statement. But why? And to what end? What purpose did she serve by risking the perception of an impartial judge?

With sudden clarity, Amallia shuddered as she choked back her tears.


	90. Sew and Reap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amallia's doubt sews deep as the trial begins.

“We can leave.”

His whisper filled her ears as calloused hands enveloped her shoulders, and despite Cullen’s warmth, Amallia shivered. “I know,” she began. “I… I’ll be fine. As long as you’re here.”

With a smile, Cullen returned his attention to the courtroom, taking in another minute of the elongated opening statements of the attorneys. Amallia, too, forced her gaze to the attorneys as they spoke, but her focus waned in minutes. Though not without purpose, their speeches dragged, droning on until nothing but an incessant buzz droned in her ears. And yet, Rendon’s ability to spin the narrative to his client’s benefit proved formative, his obscure knowledge of law vast. That, she decided, may give Anaphorah more trouble than she had bargained for.

Where Rendon’s intense intellect impressed several jurors, Anaphorah appealed to their common sense. She used few words with more than three syllables and refrained from using any legal jargon. And though Amallia worried some might find such a tactic insulting, Anaphorah spoke to the jury with such tact, not a single disgruntled glare or disapproving frown marred their faces.

But that did little to assuage Amallia’s concerns. Since Judge De Fer’s speech, an incessant worry tingled between Amallia’s shoulders leaving her tense and sore. Her mind spun with possibilities as she stared straight ahead, unblinking and unseeing. Those endless minutes of opening statements slipped by her unnoticed until Rendon brandished a sheet of paper, introducing a piece of evidence; that the trial had, at last, moved on piqued her interest. But the evidence itself—some correspondence and GPS tracking that gave Loghain an alibi for a night in question—diverted her attention from her concerns. A careful glance towards Cullen yielded nothing but more questions, his face a mask of blank stoicism. And then her concerns returned twofold, compounded and ever growing, exasperated by her overactive imagination.

Much of the morning passed in a blur from there, and before she knew it, noon neared, Amallia’s stomach rumbling so loud it drew Anaphorah’s attention at the bench. Cullen shot a side-eyed glare so critical, she mouthed a silent, “Sorry,” to them both. Lucky for her, however, Judge De Fer had the same appetite and adjourned the court for the day to be reconvened on Wednesday, beginning with interviews.

As the courtroom rose with a collective groaning of benches, Amallia made for the aisle as she spoke over her shoulder. “That sounded frustrating.”

Cullen snorted a derisive sound and Amodisia’s frown agreed, but it was Alistair’s poignant thought that confirmed her suspicions. “The only reason the jury didn’t fall asleep on such a thin case is because of Serah Hawke’s charm.”

From her right, the heat of Cullen’s hand consumed hers in his large grasp. “The woman has chemistry with drywall, I swear…”

Amallia never thought herself a jealous woman, but the thought of Cullen finding Anaphorah charming heated her cheeks. “And what does that have to do with the trial?” she snipped.

“It…” Cullen started, stumbling over his words. “She’s quick-witted and has gained the ear of the jury and the judge already. Though the evidence is thin, we’re still here,” he replied. “We have Ana to thank for that.”

Amallia wrinkled her nose. “She’s not _that_ charming.”

Amodisia giggled as they stepped with the flow of the throng. “I tend to agree, but only because she’s my cousin and I find her to be obnoxious. Fun. But obnoxious,” she jested. “How about lunch? I’m famished, and I think your stomach would agree, Mal.”

Another grumble from her belly sounded on cue as they passed through the massive double doors of the courtroom, buffeted by the jostling crowd. And then a wave of sound assaulted Amallia, a chorus of calls from reporters and paparazzi accompanied by flashing cameras that left stars in their wake. As Amallia opened her mouth to respond to Amodisia, her voice clipped as another member of the media, hidden behind a camera, called out her name.

A single second stretched, indefinite, perpetual as a rush of raw fear coursed through her veins. The urge to flee, to shove through the crowded hallways rose like bile in the back of her throat. But as soon as her instincts had reared, they vanished. Alistair, swift as ever, slipped between Amallia and the crowd of cameras and microphones, his wife by his side. Together, they appeased the media frenzy with seasoned practice, granting herself and Cullen the chance to escape. Along the hall and through the lobby's heavy oak doors, they emerged on the steps of the courthouse into bright March sunlight, greeted by a gentle breeze that whispered hints of spring.

Not a moment later, Alistair exited the courthouse, and Amodisia followed, her rough sigh and rolling eyes encompassing Amallia’s feelings with startling accuracy. Amazed by Amodisia’s skill in containing the media, Amallia opened her mouth to compliment her, but before she even breathed, Amodisia’s phone interrupted. _Seasons of Lust_ sounded from her bag, and another scoff escaped Amodisia’s pursed lips as she plunged a hand into its depths, digging until she retrieved her phone. A perfunctory glance at her screen preceded a swipe of her thumb, and then she answered with a terse, “Hello?”

With all eyes on her, Amodisia spoke not a word. The knot between her brow unfurled, and lips fell slack as the tension in her jaw eased. And for a moment, her cheeks drained of any color, white as a sheet. And yet, as if she had imagined it, Amodisa collected herself, nothing but implacable poise on her unreadable face, disciplined by years of practice.

“I will be there.”

Amodisia’s sudden response ended the call, and she returned the phone into her purse. “I'm afraid I'll be missing lunch,” she started, voice unsteady and eyes glassy. “I… have to meet with an associate.” A quivering hand palmed her forehead, brushing earthen brown locks of her hair from her face. “He needs me to... to…”

Alistair’s pained stare narrowed on his wife as a comforting hand smoothed her back. “Sia, darling, are you alright? You've gone pale as the dead.”

She shook her head, focus returning. “I'm fine. Sorry, but I have to go. Ali, can you ride with Mal? I'll need Ashara to take me…”

“But where are you going?” Alistair squawked as she tugged him to her for a quick kiss. “I don’t want you going out alone.”

The growing tension between their friends dug under Amallia’s skin, crawling and itching along her spine. Difficult to ignore the terse words, their hissing whispers traded under their breaths as they shifted aside for a modicum of privacy.

“I should go with her,” Cullen muttered.

Amallia shook her head with an exasperated sigh. “The press is already having a field day with the two of them in town. What will they make of the governor's wife traipsing off with another man?”

A scandalized eyebrow crept skyward as understanding bloomed red across his nose. “I suppose you're right,” Cullen stated, frowning. “I hate seeing them so stressed. Look at them. They never bicker like that.”

Amallia chanced a look as Amodisia turned from Alistair and approached them. “I'm so sorry, but I have to go. Cullen, this… it’s…”

A light shown in Cullen's amber eyes as they widened. “The third account?”

She nodded. “Alistair knows. He’s… talk to him, please? I know the two of you have made amends since Loghain’s arrest. Reach out to him. He’ll appreciate it.”

He nodded with a vigorous shake of his head. “Go. Ash can take you, and I'll send Delrin and Samson as surveillance. That’ll help Ali a bit, no?”

She smiled, a weight seeming to slide from her shoulders. “Thank you, both, so much,” she started, hugging each of them. “I'll call you as soon as I know more.”

With that she returned to Alistair who wrapped her in his massive bear hug, lingering photographers pouncing on the opportunity for a front-page image. And then she disappeared, melding into the throng crowding the steps of the courthouse.

Despite all their hard work, Amallia struggled to shake the looming fear that the trial was doomed.


	91. Saving Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial's saving grace.

The large SUV lumbered into the town square of Redcliffe, time slowing to a crawl as though Amodisia dreamed. Remnants of a year-old memory returned, rushing to the fore of her mind as she watched the diner pass, Ashara following the curving road to the center of the square. Two doors down sat a coffee shop, a tiny entry in front of which Ashara parked the truck.

“Before you leave,” Ashara began she dug through a black duffle bag in the passenger seat. “Clip this in your purse,” she said as she turned over the center console and handed Amodisia a tiny device. “We’ll be able to hear everything. If it goes south, we’ll be in before you think to ask.”

With a nod, Amodisia took the device and clipped it into her purse. “Nothing is going to happen, Ash. I'm… in good hands. But thank you.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. Theirin. Delrin and Samson will follow you in about thirty-three and fifty-two seconds. Be a dear and ignore them?” Ashara’s glamorous smile spread across her lips revealing small, white teeth.

Amodisia laughed at that, a hand covering her lips. “Have you ever considered working for the state, Ms. Lavellen? We could use someone like you.”

A curious brow arched towards her hairline as Ashara eyed her. But before she spoke, Amodisia waved off the question. “So rude of me to poach Mr. Rutherford’s employees. Forget I said that.”

“It would take more than a little flattery to pull me away from REDIS, ma’am. But I appreciate your honesty.” Another dazzling smile flashed before Ashara shooed her from the truck. “Best be on your way. We already appear suspicious in this ridiculous truck.”

Despite her urge to laugh, Amodisia remained calm, her chest expanding with deep, steadying breath and stamping down her nerves, steeling her resolve. Though returning to the square summoned memories better left buried, nothing about meeting her old friend concerned her. But the risk of being seen, of being recognized by anyone looking for a scandal terrified her. That revelation, before she had control of the narrative, might destroy their only chance at justice.

“I’ll be waiting here, Ms. Theirin,” Ashara assured her. “But I’d limit your time, just to be safe.”

Amodisia popped open the passenger door and exited as she spoke. “I should be no more than fifteen minutes. If something comes up, text me.”

Ashara nodded once more, and Amodisia donned her large sunglasses as she shut the door of the truck, then stalked to the entrance of the coffee shop. Heavy glass and brushed steel barred her way, but with a swift pull, the door swung aside, granting her passage.

A quick survey of the room proved fruitless. Cozy and crowded, every chair near the hearth sat occupied. A roaring fire crackled there, and the heat warmed her wind-whipped cheeks to a rosy pink. Heavy booths lined the walls while small mismatched tables and chairs dotted the wooden floor with their awkward charm, fitting the atmosphere of  _In The Stone_  playing from a small speaker on the mantle.

But she saw hide nor hair of her friend. Maker’s breath, had he sent her on a ruse? No. He did not play games, at least any so serious, and given the severity of the situation, he would not risk his own livelihood for some silly prank. But, if that were the case, why had she not spotted him?

Not a heartbeat later, Delrin entered the coffee shop, sidestepping her frozen frame and entering the queue. He had not looked at her once, and though she tried to mimic his inconspicuous behavior, Amodisia felt every eye in the café staring at her.

Careful, deliberate steps carried her to the end of the line at the register. Something might have detained, something as simple as traffic impeding his schedule. Despite her better judgment, Amodisia's imagination spiraled out of control, concocting all manner of terrible accidents or misfortunes, the worst of which feature Loghain’s men catching up with him. When the door opened a second time, she startled, it’s tinkling bell jarring her from her thoughts. Samson wasted no time in drawing attention, greeting Delrin as if friends on a coffee break and cutting ahead of her in line without a single glance in her direction.

Hard to breathe, she sucked in each ragged breath as her world spun out of control until she tasted bile at the back of her throat. And then the warmth of a deft hand smoothed her shoulders, tender as a lover's caress. Narrow black boots rolled to a stop beside her own, and there she followed the trim lines of his suit, long legs, trim waist, and lean shoulders. When the pale brown eyes framed by the long blonde hair of Zevran Arainai met hers, Amodisia wept.

Ever ready, Zevran moved first. “Sia, you look ravishing, as always,” he whispered as he scooped her into a fierce hug.

Stunned, Amodisia hesitated before returning his affection twice over, leaping into his arms and hugging him, tight as her tiny frame allowed. Tears blurred her vision, so torn between relief and terror, but she replied despite her blubbering. “Thank the Maker you’re all right, it’s so good to see you.”

He held her there until her tears subsided, a shuddering sigh easing her thumping heart. “What would lead you to believe I was anything less than perfect?”

Parted, Amodisia giggled as she dabbed her tears from her cheeks. “The trial has me on edge, as you can imagine.”

“Oh, I’m not unfamiliar with your impressive anxiety.” Zevran gestured to a tiny nook in the corner of the shop. “Dirty latte?”

Her jaw dropped as Amodisia spotted the table, two small coffee cups resting atop its dark oak surface. Impossible. She had checked the entire shop. Where had he hidden? That booth had been unoccupied not a minute earlier, but upon reexamination, the cups remained, as real as Zevran standing before her.

Without waiting for her reply, Zevran ushered her to the table and she followed, feet carrying her despite her confusion. “You know me too well.”

“I know you best,” he said with a wink as they seated themselves across from one another. After sipping his coffee, Zevran continued. “So, to business. I imagine you don’t have much time.”

Her stomach sank, purpose weighing heavy as lead. Maker, why did it have to be like this? Why, after all these years, must they reunite under such tenuous terms? Her fingers sought the warmth of her cup, hopeful she might find courage there, too. Several thoughtless seconds slipped through her hands as she held the mug, words lost to her. “I’m so sorry for this, Zevran.”

He reached across the table, his hands enveloping hers about her mug. “My darling Sia, think nothing of it. I’m happy to see you well. And, as always, you look absolutely stunning.”

Tension seeped from her as if Zevran had released a pressure valve. “And you haven’t aged a day,” she commented with another giggle. “I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to this. I… realize the risk must be quite high.”

Without speaking, Zevran withdrew a thick envelope from his jacket. He set it on the table, handling the envelope with great care, as though it were a fragile piece of art. “It is,” he started with a frown that lasted but a second. Replaced by his charming, crooked smile, he shrugged. “And it isn’t.” He slid the envelope across the table, eyes never leaving hers. The second she moved for it, Zevran snatched her hand, trapping it between the envelope and his.

“I have but one condition. If you open this, you agree to the terms held within. I have copies,” he warned. “I have no doubt  _you_  will honor my wishes. But I do not trust our government to see it the way you and I do.”

It had been months since Amodisia had felt any sense of normalcy in hers and Alistair's lives. The constant chaos since the shooting had left her addled, clouded in constant confusion. When the lack of progress during the initial investigation surfaced, Amodisia bottled her rage. But then REDIS stepped in, and fear gripped her like a vice. By the time the third attempt on her life happened, leaving no evidence, the last vestiges of Amodisia’s sanity slipped through her fingers like water through a sieve.

But at that very moment, clarity returned in a brilliant flash of understanding.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

A wry smile spread across his lips, though Zevran did not answer. Once he released her hand, she grasped the envelope and tore it open, ripping its contents from their shell. There she grasped fifteen pages of perfection, her eyes brimming with tears of relief. This, more than anything, mattered most. It would be Anaphorah’s best chance at a conviction. Maker, the end of the chaos, of the madness consuming their lives the last year ceased to exist as if it had all been a long, terrible dream. Amodisia squeezed her eyes shut as tears blurred her vision once more.

His warmth enveloped her, hands cupping her cheeks as he placed a kiss atop her head. Watery eyes pried open to look upon him one more time. Beside her he stood, a thumb caressing her cheek as he smiled. “Be safe, my little raven,” he whispered. “If this world is as just as you believe it to be, I will see you again soon.”

Zevran’s long, rolling gate carried him away on swift strides, weaving through the tables of the shop and then through the door. And alone in the booth, Amodisia sat, clutching her friend's livelihood to her chest as she sobbed in sweet relief.


	92. Commitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amodisia presents Zevran’s statement to Anaphorah.

“Full immunity?”

Amallia stared between Amodisia and Anaphorah where they stood ten feet apart. The private interview room of the courthouse offered little space, but for their immediate need, it sufficed.

“Sia, what makes you think I would give Zevran Arainai, a known hitman, the man who tried to  _murder_  you, full immunity?”

Near the door Amallia stood with Cullen to her left and Alistair to her right, arms folded across her chest and tongue held silent. Too many questions tumbled through her mind, their numbers growing by the minute. What role had Zevran Arainai—their college roommate—played in this crime?

Though Cullen moved not an inch, his eyes betrayed him; wider and wider, they all but popped from his head. He knew. Not everything. But enough. And to her right, Alistair’s face had gone white as a sheet, sunken eyes betraying his nights without sleep. He had not known, and Amodisia mouthed a silent apology when his heartbreaking frown found hers.

Despite her tiny frame, Amodisia stood tall, her spine straight as an arrow. “It’s in his statement. Everything we need is there.”

Anaphorah brandished the papers like a weapon, aiming center mass at Amodisia. “This explains  _nothing_. Were Loghain up for attempted murder, then yes, but he’s—”

A scoff burst from Amodisia’s pursed lips. “It doesn’t prove attempted murder, it proves the fact that he bribed those officers!”

“No, it does not, it’s hearsay—”

“The rest of the money leads to the Crows!”

“That money could be from anybody!”

Amodisia threw her hands up, no retaliation readied. With her index finger and thumb, she pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. Too quiet for them to hear, Amallia strained an ear but caught none of her words.

A snarl contorted Anaphorah’s angular nose as she spoke. “What was that?”

Amodisia snatched her jacket from the chair behind her and stomped for the door. In her haste, Amallia tripped over her own feet leaping from her path, grasping Cullen’s arm for balance. Doorknob in hand, Amodisia wrenched it wide, then turned over her shoulder with a glare cold enough to wake the dead.

“This isn’t my job, it’s yours. Figure it the fuck out, Ana.”

She waited not one second for a rebuke, the door slamming shut behind her with a resounding crash.

“And I thought  _I_ wanted to see Loghain in jail…”

“Alistair,” Cullen admonished.

“I’m serious. I’ve never seen Sia so angry.”

Anaphorah snorted, reminding them of her presence. “Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“I’m sorry, Ana,” Alistair started. “She’s on edge. We all are.”

Slumped into her own chair, Anaphorah poured over the thick statement, shaking her head. “She’s not wrong, though. This statement is backed up by all of our evidence, including Loghain’s less than sterling government finances. The numbers match. And he has pictures of himself meeting with Loghain. It’s… while the money  _could_  be from anybody, the pictures are pretty damning. It would be worth putting Zevran on the stand.”

Alistair scowled his own glare, shaking his head. “Are you serious? It would be worth granting him full immunity?”

Anaphorah glowered as she stood, eyes yet focused on the statement. “What else do we have?”

Alistair’s lips worked, but his words failed him. “But… isn’t there… we have evidence, right? Can we… I don’t know, delay or stall somehow?”

A knot twisted her brow as Anaphorah remained silent as she regarded him a moment. “Stall for what?”

All eyes turned to him, and when Alistair gaped again, the fine hairs on Amallia’s arms raised with gooseflesh. “I—I don’t know. Isn’t Nathaniel still investigating? Maybe he’ll find something else.”

A careful glance at Anaphorah revealed nothing but more questions. “I doubt he will find anything, but I’m not without hope. Regardless, we have to operate tomorrow on the premise that he won’t. I’m calling Zevran onto the stand.”

“To prove?”

Anaphorah sighed a long, exasperated groan. “Motive. A motive behind the bribery, which lead to the obstruction of justice, and the evidence tampering.” She paused a moment, long fingers tapping the stack of papers. “I could present an attempted murder charge, second degree. But with only Zevran’s testimony and no proof otherwise that he hired a hit man to kill Amodisia, we wouldn’t even make it to trial.”

Both Amallia and Cullen checked Alistair for a response, his sunken eyes falling to his feet. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Ana. But thank you. For everything.”

She gathered her coat and heavy briefcase, stuffing Zevran’s statement in an open pocket. “I have to meet with our witness. Make sure you’re there first thing tomorrow. I’ll not waste any time getting started.”

As she approached the door, Cullen opened it and followed her from the room. With Amallia and Alistair in tow, he laughed as he spoke.

“Lucky for us, I’m all too familiar with your punctual nature, Hawke.”


	93. Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day five of the trial

“You were in Redcliffe square the day of the shooting, then?”

Zevran, calm and cool, spoke into the microphone. “I was, yes.”

“What were you doing in the square?” Anaphorah continued her line of questioning.

The fifth day of the trial had hit the ground running as Anaphorah had said. Until that morning, Amallia had believed beyond any doubt that Loghain Mac Tir would walk. And then Zevran had taken the stand. She had not seen him arrive, but when Anaphorah had called upon him, he manifested from the audience, sharp black suit pressed and long blonde hair coiffed in a neat braid.

Amallia’s attention returned to the present when Zevran spoke. “I was carrying out my mark.”

Anaphorah frowned as she neared the witness’s seat. “Your mark? Could you explain for the jury what that means?”

Zevran nodded with pursed lips. Not once that entire morning had Amallia seen a hint of his charm or alluring nature. “I work for the Antivan Crows.”

A collective gasp swept the courtroom in a wave of shock that left her row untouched.

“For the record, what are the Antivan Crows?” Anaphorah asked.

With practiced words and an indomitable presence, Zevran explained. “The Antivan Crows provide alternative conflict resolutions, including, but not limited to, extortion, blackmail, and assassination.”

Judge De Fer rapped the gavel with a quick smack against her table when the courtroom's murmuring escalated. “Quiet, please,” she demanded, and the court obeyed.

“Are you an assassin then?” Anaphorah asked.

“If you must use such uncouth language, yes,” Zevran answered with a hint of his typical flippant tongue.

A stern glare from Judge De Fer gripped the courtroom’s silence, but Amallia feared her heart hammered loud enough for everyone to hear. Adrenaline raced through her veins, her head spinning in the wake of Anaphorah’s line of questioning.

“Please explain what it is you do to a mark, Mr. Arainai.”

The jury listened with rapt attention, hanging on Zevran's every word. “I have been sent to do many things to a mark, ma'am. Intimidate, track, and document are but a few of my usual tasks. In some rare cases, I am contracted to eliminate a target.”

“You mean kill a target?”

“Objection, leading.”

Judge De Fer’s penetrating glare bore into Rendon Howe, who, for the first time in the entire trial, interrupted Anaphorah. Red-faced and bearing over the table, Rendon appeared poised to charge. And in the span of a heartbeat, Judge De Fer’s identical ire vanished, replaced by a thoughtful smile. “I'm sorry, Serah Hawke. He’s right. Sustained.”

“I'll rephrase,” Anaphorah stated, nonplussed. “What do you mean by ‘eliminate a target’, Mr. Arainai?”

“I kill them.”

Silence so solid seized the courtroom, Amallia's racing heart pounding like a booming bass drum. Rendon's interjection had taken the entire courtroom aback, leaving her on edge. And while Anaphorah remained unfazed, her partner scribbled furious notes and clicked her tongue several times for her partner's attention. When Anaphorah turned, her partner tore the paper from the pad and held it aloft.

Anaphorah retrieved the yellow sheet from her outstretched hand, reading with a quick eye. “Zevran, who hired you for the mark in Redcliffe square?”

Calm as ever, Zevran leaned into the microphone and spoke. “Loghain Mac Tir.”

Whispers bubbled to the surface as Anaphorah walked a slow saunter to the jury. “And what kind of mark was it? What were you contracted to do to this mark?”

“Elimination, ma'am,” Zevran stated.

“You mean kill?”

“Objection, leading.”

Anaphorah looked to the judge for the ruling and Amallia clamped a hand over her mouth to silence a laugh. Judge De Fer, despite her serious reputation, quirked a brow with such disdain, Amallia imagined her irritated. “Sustained,” she stated with a wry frown. “Rephrase the question, Serah Hawke.”

Anaphorah nodded with a small smile. “Withdrawn. This is my last question, Mr. Arainai. Who were you hired to _eliminate_ that day in Redcliffe square?”

Zevran smiled, a face Amallia had not seen in years.

“I was hired to kill Amodisia Theirin.”


End file.
